In a flash Elsie saw the wisdom of allowing him at least to pretend to such a belief. “Perhaps I did,” she said slowly. “Anyway, it’s true enough that we aren’t particularly happy together, and never have been. And I meant what I said about a separation, right enough, Horace.” “You won’t get one,” said Williams, and his voice had become vicious-sounding once more. “And remember what I’ve said--that fellow is never to set foot in here again, and you and he are not to meet in future.” * * * * * The following morning Elsie went to the High Street post-office and found there the letter that she had expected. “MY OWN DARLING GIRLIE, “What is to be done? I can’t tell you, darling, what a hound I felt to leave you all alone with that jealous brute yesterday and yet the awful thing is that he has the right to you and I have none. Oh, Elsie life is hard isn’t it darling? I wish I could take you away but that cannot be and it is you that have to bear the brunt of it all except that I am in hell knowing what you are going through all the time. Perhaps that is not an expression I ought to use to you but you must excuse it for I hardly know what I am writing. “One of our chaps has gone sick, and they are sending me to the North instead of him which means we can’t meet again as I go off to-morrow. But write to me darling and tell me what it is best to do now. Would it simplify things if we were to be just friends and no more? “Cheer up, Elsie perhaps some day things may come right for us--who knows? He may die; doesn’t he always say there is something wrong with him? “A thousand kisses for you, dearie. I have your sweet photo with me and love to look at it and re-read your wonderful letters. Write and tell me everything, and what you think we had better do. Shall we be able to meet when I come back at the end of the month? “No more at present, from “Your own true lover, Leslie, “BOY.” To Elsie, Leslie Morrison’s love-letters were wonderful. She read and re-read this one, but when she had answered it, she burnt it. Certain words of the clairvoyante, whom she had once visited with Irene Tidmarsh, she had never been able to forget, and of late they had haunted her anew. “_Beware of the written word...._” Elsie burnt all Morrison’s letters to her, and asked him to burn all those that she wrote him. Gradually these letters that passed between them grew to be the most important factor in her life. Elsie, who had detested writing, now desired nothing so much as to pour out her soul on paper, and the limitations that she found imposed upon her through lack of education and the power to express herself made her angry.