But what was the use! The Magdalen he had loved had ceased to exist. The wand-like figure with its apple-blossom face faded, faded, and in its place rose up the image of the thin, distinguished-looking grey-haired woman who had supplanted that marvel. He had met Magdalen accidentally once or twice in London of late years, and had felt dismayed anger at the change in her, an offended anger not wholly unlike that with which he surveyed himself at his tailors', and inspected at unbecoming angles, through painfully frank mirrors, a thick back and a stout neck and jaw which cruelly misrepresented his fastidious artistic personality. He returned to his letters. Three sheets in a firm, upright hand. "I do not suppose you remember me," it began, "but I intend to recall myself to your memory, which I believe to be none of the best. I am the wife of Sir John Blore, and aunt to Magdalen Bellairs." He flung the letter down. But this was intolerable, a persecution. And what fools they were _all_ to write. Had Magdalen set them on? He groaned with sudden self-disgust. What unworthy thought would come to him next? Of course she knew nothing of this. He looked at the date of each letter carefully. Aunt Aggie's according to her wont had only the day of the week on it, just Tuesday, or it might be Thursday--but Colonel Bellairs's and Lady Blore's were fully dated, and about a fortnight apart. Colonel Bellairs had written last. Lord Lossiemouth divined that each of the three believed him or herself to be the only one to tackle the subject. How ghastly! What a cruelly good short story it would make for a magazine! Then he read Lady Blore's letter. Apparently it was not pleasant reading. It seemed to prick somewhat sharply. He winced once or twice, and spoke angrily to it. "My good woman, as if I did not _know_ that! Men are always behaving heartlessly to women in their opinion. It is the normal male state. It is an established fact that we are all brutes. Why do you want me to marry your paragon if you have such a low opinion of me?" Still he could not put the letter down. "It is possible though improbable," wrote that dauntless woman, "that your vacillating and selfish character may have improved sufficiently in the course of years for you to have become aware that you have behaved disgracefully to a woman, who, if she had had any sense, ought never to have given you a second thought, who was and still is deeply attached to you; probably the only person on this earth who has the misfortune to care two pins about you." Lord Lossiemouth tried to feel sarcastic. He tried to laugh. But it was no use. Lady Blore's arrow had penetrated a joint in his harness. After all he need take no notice of any of these monstrous effusions. He was disgusted with opening letters. Nevertheless he hurried on. Perhaps he should find others less intolerable.