That might happen on her birthday—in August. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. Splendidly.
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