He had occasionally thought of Ethelyn's threat, not to write him a line, and felt very uncomfortable as he recalled the expression of her eyes when she made it.

But he did not believe she was in earnest.

She surely could not hold out against the letter he wrote, telling how he missed her every moment, and how, if it had been at all advisable, he would have taken her with him.

He did not know Ethelyn, and so was not prepared for the bitter disappointment in store for him when the dainty little envelope was put into his hand.

It was her handwriting--so much he knew; and there lingered about the missive faint traces of the sweet perfume he remembered as pervading everything she wore or used.