"Then I may ask questions. I want to hear what you've been doing since we parted, and where you've been, and how you come to Paris--and where your aunt is, and what she'll say to me when she comes in." "She likes you," said Betty, "and she won't come in, but Madame Gautier will. Aunt Julia went off this morning--she couldn't delay any longer because of catching the P. & O. at Brindisi; and I'm to wait here till Madame Gautier comes at three. Auntie came all the way back from America to see whether I was happy here. She _is_ a dear!" "And who is Madame Gautier? Is she also a dear? But let's have our coffee in the salon--and tell me everything from the beginning." "Yes," said Betty, "oh, yes!" But the salon window was darkened by a passing shape. "My uncle, bless him!" said Vernon. "I must go. See, here's my card! Won't you write and tell me all about everything? You will, won't you?" "Yes, but you musn't write to me. Madame Gautier opens all our letters, and friendships weren't invented when she was young either. Good-bye." Vernon had to go towards the strong English voice that was filling the hall with its inquiries for "Ung Mossoo--ung mossoo Anglay qui avoir certainmong etty icy ce mattan." Five minutes later Betty saw two figures go along the pavement on the other side of the decorous embroidered muslin blinds which, in the unlikely event of any happening in the Cite de la Retraite, ensure its not being distinctly seen by those who sojourn at the Hotel Bête. Betty instantly experienced that feminine longing which makes women write to lovers or friends from whom they have but now parted, and she was weaker than Lady St. Craye. There was nothing to do. Her trunks were packed. She had before her two hours, or nearly, of waiting for Madame Gautier. So she wrote, and this is the letter, erasures and all. Vernon, when he got it, was most interested in the erasures here given in italics. Dear Mr. Vernon: