"Oh, I don't care what I do!" I said wearily. "There aren't many things I can do. Marrying this young man is one of them, anyway. Why shouldn't I? All marriage is a ghastly risk. Especially when a girl knows she can never, never care for anybody."
It was here that Elizabeth, that good chum, took me fairly in hand.
"I'll talk now," she said. "You listen." And she began to talk coolly and helpfully and like a dose of bromide, which was what I needed at that point.
"You said there weren't many things you could do. Home's off. You're not rich enough to do nothing, so you must do something. That means you either marry for a job—lots of girls do, poor wretches—or take one. I suppose your precious Winter isn't too chilly to give you a reference?"
"I daresay he's warmer now he's got that window shut!" I answered languidly.
"Then you're left with the choice of doing a sensible thing or a silly one," Elizabeth declared. "You go into another Government office, or you marry this man, who may drink or squint or have a beard for all you know."
"He used not to," I murmured with my eyes closed.
"Oh, you do remember so much about him? I say, could I see his letter?"
"Of course. Rummage in my bag for it, will you?—but I've told you all that was in it."
"I'd like to see the writing," said Elizabeth, rummaging. Presently I heard her say "Hullo!" in a more alert voice. I opened my eyes interested—Elizabeth was scanning a paper. It was headed:—