One morning in the middle of August, Harry Kelly cut short his gymnastics and went downstairs to get fruit, cream and rolls for Cornelia, as he had done daily since Janet left. The letter box held one letter, a fat one, postmarked Paris. Cornelia was inclined to be lackadaisical before breakfast, but a letter enlivened her at once, especially if it came from a long-lost friend or bore a foreign postmark. Kelly sent his powerful form bounding up the staircase, the victuals being safeguarded by a miracle of balancing. "A letter from Paris," he called out joyfully, as he entered Apartment Fifteen. "From Janet!" exclaimed Cornelia with conviction. One glance at the handwriting verified her guess. "Janet’s hand," she said, and tore the envelope open feverishly. "Wouldn’t you enjoy reading it more after breakfast?" he said wistfully as he watched Cornelia unfolding a great many pages of writing. "What an idea! Make the coffee, Hercules, there’s a good boy. The water is boiling; all you need to do is to pour the water on the coffee and let it stand." As Kelly had fallen sole heir to the daily duty of preparing her breakfast, he uncomplainingly went to work. Meanwhile, Cornelia, in a very becoming green-and-gold Mimosa jacket, sat down on a lounge and buried herself in Janet’s letter. *II* Dear Cornelia: Here I am in the Luxembourg Gardens, alone with my fountain pen and my pad of paper, Claude having gone to the races as the guest of a Russian Grand Duke. I feel ages removed from the days of Kips Bay, though by the calendar only four weeks have gone by. Why haven’t you heard from me in all this time? That, I imagine, is the first question you would ask me if we met face to face. No, you wouldn’t. You would divine the answer. You would know that the blinding, paralyzing, notoriety into which we were suddenly plunged, left me with but one desire, the supreme desire for solitude. A desert without a single oasis would not have been too lonely for me to live in. For a few days even Claude— Those cruel headlines, those stabbing capital letters! Like points of fire in a demon dance they riot in and out of my memory yet. "Affinity or Elopement!" "Fontaine Heir Meets Enchantress on Baronia!" "Diamond King’s Son in Joy-Ride to Europe!" How did the inquisition happen to overlook such exquisite weapons of torture as huge red capitals on a smooth white space? Writing the letters down affords a mild relief. To my physical sight, not to my mind’s eye. Oh yes, I actually saw the headlines that Hutchins Burley fabricated in his newspaper story. Some thoughtful enemy of Claude’s took pains to have a copy of the _Evening Chronicle_ forwarded to his Paris address. Didn’t you guess at once that Hutchins was the beast responsible for the publicity we got? That vicious man has a mortal grudge to pay off against me or against Claude or perhaps against us both. But what for?