said it was the _entente cordiale_. I laughed at first, and then I cried a good deal; for it seemed hard that I should have to marry an old man, even if he is only fifty and a _good figure_. But what was a poor girl to do? Adèle and the Siedmyers persuaded me, and really it did seem to me quite _providential_, just in the midst of this disgrace; and it's not as though he didn't love me, for he's perfectly _infatuated_ over me. I know you'll sneer, you always were good at that. But I don't care. There's one thing I _always_ made my mind up to--it was that I wouldn't be poor. And, as I said, it did really seem quite _providential_, just when I couldn't hope to marry well in England, because of father's _wickedness_, that M. Simon--that's his name--should fall in love with me. I was dreadfully afraid at first that he'd ask awkward questions about father, but he never did, though he must have known _something_. Of course I didn't tell him--not likely. So the upshot of it is that we were married last week. So now you know. I thought I ought to tell you, and you can tell father, if you like. You needn't expect me _ever_ to come to London again--horrid, hateful city! If you like to come over to Paris some time, of course I'll see you; but I won't see father! I draw the line at that. And I am sure he won't expect it after all the _cruel_ wrong he's done me. I should think he would be too _ashamed_. If you can find any of my little knick-nacks in my drawers I wish you would pack them up and send them over. But I dare say they're gone--very likely the servants took them; and it doesn't _really_ matter, for I've everything I need. Thank God, I shall not be poor now, in spite of father's _wickedness_. "Your sister, "HELEN. "P.S.--We are living at the Hotel Continental, _for the present_. If you were only sensible I would say come over, and meet Adèle Siedmyer. She will have lots of money when her father dies. But I suppose you prefer _digging_ like a labourer in that _nasty_ Canada. There's no accounting for tastes, is there?" Arthur, who, of course, was familiar with the letter, turned his face away while Mrs. Bundy read it, for he was heartily ashamed of it. Its complete selfishness and shallowness, its spite, its rancour, its hard worldliness, above all, its nauseous pietism, had filled him with disgust. He was surprised therefore when Mrs. Bundy put it down, with the exclamation, "Poor child!" "Why do you say that?" he cried. "A letter like that puts its writer beyond pity."