At last the Baroness returned, radiant with health; the memories awakened by meeting again the friends of her girlhood seemed to have rejuvenated her.
"Here is the dove with the olive branch," she said, handing me a letter from my so-called sweetheart.
With anything but genuine enjoyment I waded through the presumptuous twaddle, the effusions of a heartless blue-stocking, anxious to win independence by marriage—any marriage, and while I was reading I made up my mind to put an end to the matter.
"Do you know for certain," I asked the Baroness, "whether the lady is engaged to the singer or not?"
"Yes and no."
"Has she given him her word?"
"No."
"Does she want to marry him?"
"No."
"Do her parents wish it?"