Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat. "I found a letter from Helen at the _Poste Restante_, here; but owing to my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it! Heaven send I haven't dropped it anywhere!" He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in all his pockets. Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring. Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague. At length Ronnie found the letter--a large, square foreign envelope--safely stowed away in his pocket-book, in the inner breast-pocket of his coat. "Of course," he said. "I remember. I put it there when I was writing Zimmermann's cheque. You will excuse me if I read it straight away? There may be something requiring a wire." "Naturally, my dear fellow; read it. Cousins need not stand on ceremony; and the Infant now being thoroughly in tune, your mind is free to spare a thought or two to Helen. Don't delay another moment. There may be a message in the letter for me." Ronnie drew the thin sheets from the envelope in feverish haste. As he did so, a folded note fell from among them unseen by Ronnie, and dropped to the floor close to Aubrey's foot. Ronnie began reading; but black spots danced before his eyes, and Helen's beautiful clear writing zig-zagged up and down the page. Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily. Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh. "What's up?" inquired Aubrey Treherne. "Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I'm in for a lecture again! Helen says: 'Ronald'--" Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper. "What a nuisance it is to own that kind of name. As a small boy I was always 'Ronnie' when people were pleased, and 'Ronald' if I was in for a wigging. The feeling of it sticks to you all your life." "Of course it does," said Aubrey sympathetically. "Beastly hard lines. Well? Helen says 'Ronald'--?" Ronnie's eyes sought the paper again; but once more the black spots danced in a wild shower. He rubbed his eyes and went on reading. "'Ronald, I shall have something to tell you when you get home, which will make a great difference to this Christmas, and to all Christmas-times to come. I will not put it into a letter. I will wait until you are here, and I can say it.'" "What can it be?" questioned Aubrey. "Oh, I know," said Ronnie, unsteadily--the floor was becoming soft and sandy again. "I have heard it all before. She always thinks me extravagant at Christmas, and objects to her old people being given champagne and other seasonable good things. I have heard--heard it--all before. There was no need to write about it. And when she--when she says it, I shall jolly well tell her that a--that a--a fellow can do as he likes with his own earnings." "I should," said Aubrey Treherne. Ronald went on reading, in silence.