Doubtless there are persons who know the origin of the last. I do not. Literally, it means a written message sent by a native runner. The foreign shops in the Far East abound in chit-books, made, most of them, in Manchester. They can be found in paper, cloth, or leather bindings. The "élite" tend toward Russia leather with a crest or monogram stamped in gold. Chit-books are to social life what check-books are to fiscal. The letter, note, or present comes accompanied by the inevitable "chit-book." The recipient is supposed to sign his name, and the hour, as in a telegram. This duty, in point of fact, is very soon relegated to the head butler, or the ingratiating "amah," a laxity which has produced more than one lawsuit and countless domestic scandals. Tsuna, in due time, appeared with a large black leather book, aggressively and odorously new, a gold spread-eagle on the back. The envelope it accompanied was large and blue. It bore Pierre's name in the clear handwriting of Miss Todd. The count signed the book and whispered Tsuna to remain just outside the door. Before opening the new missive, Pierre threw himself into a chair, his face turned partly away from Ronsard. The latter picked up a rustling Paris newspaper, and over its quivering upper edge watched the smooth cheek of Pierre, his left ear, and the strip of pink neck showing over an immaculate collar. Out of the folds of the blue letter fell a smaller one of white. This was addressed to Gwendolen. At sight of it the young man's heart gave a sick throb. He hid this in his coat, until the other should have been read. "I send you this note of Yuki's in the original, because I want you to see more in the changed handwriting than in the formal words. I am not going to insult you by trying to say anything now, except that I am sorry. I sympathize with your trouble more deeply than you will, perhaps, believe. Come to me when you will. I shall say nothing but kind things. It is a wide gulf of race and of inherited ideals between you and Yuki. No love could hold the arch of a bridge quite so wide. But remember her poor little aching heart! There! I am, as usual, doing just what I vowed I wouldn't do. Oh, Pierre, I am sorry for you,--sorry, sorry! The world doesn't seem a very bright place, this morning, does it? I have been scolding a yama-buki bush that insists upon opening in our garden; but the flowers just laugh in my face. It is an unsympathetic universe! Your friend, "GWENDOLEN." Pierre held Yuki's letter long before reading it. A breath of her subtle personality must have clung to the scrap, for he inhaled from it a new bitterness, a new anguish. With a groan as of physical suffering he threw himself forward, put elbows on his knees, and deliberately forced himself to read, in rigid silence, the following note: