I heard the step on the landing before he did.

So I broke the electric lamp, hit the ugly man on the nose with a bottle of wine, sang out in infamous Russian “Come in,” adding a vocative which will send any Russian white to the lips, opened the door quietly, and when the other had entered, which he did with the rush of a bull, faded away, as they say, and left them to it.

That was a week ago.

And now once more I am leaning back in a chair, regarding my vis-à-vis. I am in London now. The room is warm and pleasant, and its walls are lined with books. Here and there hangs an etching. The windows are heavily curtained, and there is a fire of logs in the grate. The light is soft and grateful and filters through rose-coloured silk. The floor is of parquet, on which are spread Persian rugs. And I am in dress-clothes, dry and smoking a pipe. And my mind is at ease.

And, instead of the ugly man, I am regarding, I think, the loveliest woman I ever saw. She’s wearing a flowered silk frock, and her arms lie like marble along the arms of her chair. Her knees are crossed, and the flames are lighting the sheen of a satin slipper and the pale silk stocking above. Her sweet chin is down on her chest, and her great grey eyes are looking upon my face. And when I look up a light comes into the eyes and a smile comes to play about the beautiful mouth. . . .

And as I wrote those last words she did a thing the ugly man never did and never will do—to me. She blew me a kiss.

I’m sorry I hit him so hard. He deserved it, I know. He deserved to be sawn in two. Still, he did give me a cigar. And, perhaps, if ever he’d known the love of a lady—if anyone ever had looked and smiled on him as sweetheart Jo is looking and smiling on me, he wouldn’t have been so vile or kept such doubtful company.

III
March 3rd, 1928

I am dazed . . . stunned . . . I keep thinking I am asleep and that any minute I shall wake and find it is a dream. I have picked at and felt the letter a score of times to see if it was real. I repeat, I am stunned. My brain is staggering, making fumbling efforts to grasp the frightful truth, getting hold of it—and then, because the truth sears it as an iron sears the flesh, dropping it and clutching fantasy with a wild, desperate clutch. . . . And fantasy grins and shakes it off and thrusts it back upon the scorching truth. . . .

Oh, Richard, I don’t know how to write. You’ve been so wonderful to me, and now—I’m letting you down. I can’t help it, Richard. It’s something stronger than me. If only I could have you both. But I can’t. I’ve got to choose. And I must go to Berwick—Berwick Perowne. I’ve tried not to—indeed, I have. But now I can’t fight any more. . . .