“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. She was honest again. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. He had done it. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided.
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