“I do, though,” protested the injured Roy. “That was why I wouldn’t go on playing chess. And then for you to say that I don’t _look_. But I can’t see that Den is changed—not a scrap. What do you mean? He’s the best old fellow that ever lived—just as he always was, you know.” “Old!” repeated Lucille, with a lifting of her eyebrows. “O, that’s only—that means nothing. At least, it means that I like him better than anybody else—except Molly. No, he isn’t old really, of course—he was twenty-five his last birthday.” Roy laughed to himself. “Something that you find amusing, Roy!” “It’s only the letter. Do you know, that’s from the girl he is going to marry some day. It’s from Polly.” “Oui.” Lucille had already conjectured as much. “Mademoiselle Pol-ly. C’est un peu drôle, ce nom-là.” “But ’tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. ’Tis just Polly. You do say names so drolly—so French! Den says I’m not to cure you of talking as you do, because ’tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn’t Polly. She is Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary.” “Mademoiselle Marie Keene—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene pretty—gentille?” “I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was,” declared Roy. “Though I like Molly best, you know, and she’s not pretty. But Polly’s nice, too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of time.” “I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for monsieur.” Roy murmured one impatient “Bother! Plague take it!” and then his face cleared, and he complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to Lucille, in being thus left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter. He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it in possession. The very touch of that thick paper, with its red seals, did him good. As he unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened, and sight became more clear. If Polly only wrote to say that she was growing tired of waiting and could not promise to wait indefinitely, still even that would be better than not hearing at all—even to know the worst at once would be better than absolute uncertainty. And meanwhile it was her own handwriting. There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly’s letter came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance. The early part of Polly’s effusion, which bore a date many weeks old, was written in a strain of studied archness and badinage, such as in those days was greatly affected by young ladies. Towards the end a little peep into Polly’s heart was permitted. She had apparently just received one of Ivor’s many epistles, the greater number of which never reached their destination. Bath. November 7, 1803.