I ought to say that I never remember seeing you. I am sorry that you are ill, and hope you are wrong about it. Why did you not write before, for I could have helped you then? When they pulled your ear, you ought to have gone like this (here was a rough sketch). I could not undertake praying, but would think of you instead, if that would do. I am twenty-two in April, built rather heavy, ordinary broad face, with eyes, etc. I write all this because you have mixed me with some one else, for I am not married, and do not want to be. I cannot think of you always, but will promise a quarter of an hour daily (say 7.00-7.15 A.M.), and might come to see you when you are better—that is, if you are a kid, and you read like one. I have been otter-hunting— Yours sincerely, Stephen Wonham XXIII Rickie went straight from Varden to his wife, who lay on the sofa in her bedroom. There was now a wide gulf between them. She, like the world she had created for him, was unreal. “Agnes, darling,” he began, stroking her hand, “such an awkward little thing has happened.” “What is it, dear? Just wait till I’ve added up this hook.” She had got over the tragedy: she got over everything. When she was at leisure he told her. Hitherto they had seldom mentioned Stephen. He was classed among the unprofitable dead. She was more sympathetic than he expected. “Dear Rickie,” she murmured with averted eyes. “How tiresome for you.” “I wish that Varden had stopped with Mrs. Orr.” “Well, he leaves us for good tomorrow.” “Yes, yes. And I made him answer the letter and apologize. They had never met. It was some confusion with a man in the Church Army, living at a place called Codford. I asked the nurse. It is all explained.” “There the matter ends.” “I suppose so—if matters ever end.” “If, by ill-luck, the person does call. I will just see him and say that the boy has gone.” “You, or I. I have got over all nonsense by this time. He’s absolutely nothing to me now.” He took up the tradesman’s book and played with it idly. On its crimson cover was stamped a grotesque sheep. How stale and stupid their life had become! “Don’t talk like that, though,” she said uneasily. “Think how disastrous it would be if you made a slip in speaking to him.” “Would it? It would have been disastrous once. But I expect, as a matter of fact, that Aunt Emily has made the slip already.” His wife was displeased. “You need not talk in that cynical way. I credit Aunt Emily with better feeling. When I was there she did mention the matter, but only once. She, and I, and all who have any sense of decency, know better than to make slips, or to think of making them.” Agnes kept up what she called “the family connection.” She had been once alone to Cadover, and also corresponded with Mrs. Failing. She had never told Rickie anything about her visit nor had he ever asked her. But, from this moment, the whole subject was reopened.