The book bound so admirably in crushed levant was a cook-book; the bell he rang summoned his cook.
In the lamplit living-room the younger man bent over the letter that had come at last.

It was dated early in April; had been written at Palm Beach, carried to New York, but had only been consigned to the mails within thirty-six hours: "I have had all your letters--but no courage to answer.

Now you will write no more.
"Dear--this, my first letter to you, is also my last.

I know now what the condemned feel who write in the hour of death.
"When you went away on Thursday I could not leave my room to say good-bye to you.

Gray came and knocked, but I was not fit to be seen.