My Dear Sanchia,--I may as well say at once that I am not surprised to hear from you; in fact, I have been expecting some such letter as yours ever since I read in the _Times_ of Claire Ingram's death. Poor unhappy woman, it was time! Some of the Pierpoints (the Godfrey P's) are intimate friends of ours: we dined there last week; no party--just ourselves--and heard all about it. I learned that Mr. Ingram had gone abroad, but imagine that he will be in London before the end of the season. Have you written to Mamma? If not, _pray do so_. I assure you that it will be taken as it is meant. Nothing but good can come of it. Of that I am sure. Now, as to your proposals. I think I will ask you to come to me _here_. I am very busy, with calls a thousand ways. I really have no afternoons free for as far forward as I can see--except Sundays, which I devote entirely to Tertius and religion. No woman ought to separate the two--love of God, love of husband in God. Sooner or later, all women learn it. Then the mornings are naturally occupied with the house and the children. They have Miss Meadows; but she is young and absurdly inconsequent. I don't see how you can expect a girl in her teens to work miracles. In fact, I don't want her to, and am at hand to see that she doesn't. I have spoken to Tertius, and you must forgive me for saying that we both think, under the circumstances, it would look, and be, better in every way if you came here, in the first instance. Without discussing what is done, and (I pray) done with, you will see, I think, that for me _to seek you out_ would be, to say the least of it, unusual. You left our father's house for reasons of your own; I had left it to be married to Tertius. Forgiveness, if you wish it from me, is yours: countenance of the step you took--never. You will not ask it. So come here any morning that suits you, and I shall be pleased. You will find me ready to do everything I can, to put you on your proper footing in the sphere to which you were born.--Believe me, my dear Sanchia, your affectionate sister, PHILIPPA TOMPSETT-KING. _P. S._--The Church's arms are very wide. One cannot be too thankful, as things have turned out, that Claire Ingram never sued for divorce. God is most merciful. There was some knitting of brows over this, and some chuckling. Comedy is the Art of the Chuckle; but it is very seldom that one of the persons in the play can practise that which delights us. Sanchia was such a person. She could detach herself from herself, see her own floutings and thwackings, and be amused. At the same time her reply to Philippa was curt. “You,” she wrote, “are busy, and I am not. I will come to you one of these fine mornings, and must trust to Miss Meadows' sense of fitness not to work miracles that day.” A day or two later came a telegram from Vicky Sinclair. “Just got your letter. Coming at twelve. Vicky.” Sanchia glowed. “Just like her, the darling.” Philippa's astringent proposal was put aside.