He had met Magdalen accidentally once or twice in London of late years, and had felt dismayed anger at the change in her, an offended anger not wholly unlike that with which he surveyed himself at his tailors', and inspected at unbecoming angles, through painfully frank mirrors, a thick back and a stout neck and jaw which cruelly misrepresented his fastidious artistic personality.
He returned to his letters.
Three sheets in a firm, upright hand.
"I do not suppose you remember me," it began, "but I intend to recall myself to your memory, which I believe to be none of the best.

I am the wife of Sir John Blore, and aunt to Magdalen Bellairs." He flung the letter down.

But this was intolerable, a persecution.

And what fools they were _all_ to write.

Had Magdalen set them on?
He groaned with sudden self-disgust.