"My pen is running away with me, my thoughts are no longer under my control. As I sit alone here, I hear a band in the street below playing a sad waltz air, an air that we danced to once, this season that is over. How it brings you back to me. I can see the colour of the dress you wore. I feel the scents of the flowers in your breast; you are floating by my side and your heart beats close to mine. Ah! the music ceases; you are gone? I am looking out on the evening sky; purple and gold and amethyst, the clouds bordered with a fringe of fire as the sun just sinks away. Perhaps you are looking at the same sky; perhaps your thoughts----. But no, I will not dare to say that. It is so hard. Lorry, oh, so hard, to think that we are not now as we were. Do you think I have grown sentimental? I, who was always so rough and wild and impetuous, and laughed to scorn the milk-and-water of poetry? No. I think you will know what it is that is in me, and with me, and why I feel like this; as the thoughts flow into my mind, my hand traces them just as in those past happy days. I can put into words for you, and you alone, the strange feelings and wild imaginings that no other human being ever suspects me of possessing. This is a long letter. Perhaps you will smile at it. I should not wonder; but, in any case, don't visit its folly on the writer, who is now and always--Yours only, "KEITH." In the reddened glow of the fire-blaze Lauraine reads these words. Her eyes grow dark and misty; a strange, soft trouble takes possession of her heart. "He is quite right," she thinks. "We two stand to each other in quite a different light to what we do to any one else. It was so natural once to speak to each other like this; but, though I thought I knew Keith, I am afraid I did not. I never gave him credit for such depth of feeling. I thought, after that day, he would forget me. And, after all----" A heavy sigh breaks from her lips. She folds the letter together, and puts it in her pocket. Her husband's lies on the table, unopened. "Sir Francis is a good correspondent," remarks Lady Etwynde. "Is he enjoying his cruise?" "Sir Francis!" murmurs Lauraine, vaguely. "I--I have not read his letter yet." "I beg your pardon!" exclaims Lady Etwynde, hastily, and colouring with embarrassment. It has not occurred to her that that long, bold, manly scrawl could be from any one but Sir Francis. Lauraine takes up the other letter now. No closely covered sheets here. Rather a different missive: "DEAR LAURAINE, "Weather beastly; every one out of sorts. Awfully slow, if it wasn't for Lady Jean. Hope you and the boy are all right. Ask some people for next month. The Salomans will come back with me.--Yours, "FRANCIS VAVASOUR "PS.--Will write and say what date to expect us."