John, she declared, was on the eve of an _enormous_ success.

It would be all right presently.
* * * * * Weeks passed.

The joy of that one golden letter faded; and gradually the shadows re-closed about her.

Fenwick's letters dwindled again to post-cards, and then almost ceased.

When the hurried lines came, the strain and harass expressed in them left no room for affection.
Something wrong with the 'Genius Loci'!--some bad paints--hours of work needed to get the beastly thing right--the portrait still far from complete--but the dress would be a _marvel_!--without quenching the head in the least.