That evening, however, her thoughts were a little diverted from her father. For the first time for many months she had a letter from Rose. It was to announce her engagement to Captain Golightly. Rose seemed very happy, but there was an undertone of regret about the letter which was uncomfortably suggestive of her flirtation with Tom. Also there were sentences which, to Erica, were enigmatical, about “having been so foolish last summer,” and wishing that she “could live that Brighton time over again.” All she could do was to choose the time and place for telling Tom with discrimination. No opportunity presented itself till late in the evening when she went down as usual to say good night to him, taking Rose's letter with her. Tom was in his “den,” a small room consecrated to the goddess of disorder books, papers, electric batteries, crucibles, chemicals, new temperance beverages, and fishing rods were gathered together in wild confusion. Tom himself was stirring something in a pipkin over the gas stove when Erica came in. “An unfallible cure for the drunkard's craving after alcohol,” he said, looking up at her with a smile. “'A thing of my own invention,' to quote the knight in 'Through the Looking Glass.' Try some?” “No, thank you,” said Erica, recoiling a little from the very odoriferous contents of the pipkin. “I have had a letter from Rose this evening.” Tom started visibly. “What, has Mr. Fane-Smith relented?” he asked. “Rose had something special to tell me,” said Erica, unfolding the letter. But Tom just took it from her hands without ceremony, and began to read it. A dark flush came over his face Erica saw that much, but afterward would not look at him, feeling that it was hardly fair. Presently he gave her the letter once more. “Thank you,” he said in a voice so cold and bitter that she could hardly believe it to be his. “As you probably see, I have been a fool. I shall know better how to trust a woman in the future.” “Oh, Tom,” she cried. “Don't let it--” He interrupted her. “I don't wish to talk,” he said. “Least of all to one who has adopted the religion which Miss Fane-Smith has been brought up in a religion which of necessity debases and degrades its votaries.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she new that Christianity would in this case be better vindicated by silence than by words however eloquent. She just kissed him and wished him good night. But as she reached the door, his heart smote him. “I don't say it has debased you,” he said; “but that that is its natural tendency. You are better than your creed.” “He meant that by way of consolation,” thought Erica to herself as she went slowly upstairs fighting with her tears. But of course the consolation had been merely a sharper stab; for to tell a Christian that he is better than his creed is the one intolerable thing.