He suddenly threw himself on his bed and gave way to a crisis of despair.
* * * * * About an hour later, when the pain had somehow become stupefied, he lit a cigarette, ashamed of his emotion even to himself, and rang.

The servant brought him a letter--the English post.
He had thought so much of her, felt her so deeply the last few days that he fancied it must somehow have reached her.

He read: 'My Dear Aylmer, 'I'm glad you are in Paris; it seems nearer home.

Last night I went to the Mitchells' and Mr Mitchell disguised himself as a Russian Count.
Nobody worried about it, and then he went and undisguised himself again.

But Lady Hartland worried about it, and as she didn't know the Mitchells before, when he was introduced to her properly she begged him to give her the address of that charming Russian.