Yours faithfully,
F. S. Maple.
This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke.
Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark.
Exactly a month had slipped by.
There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best.
So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower.
Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side.
Presently she raised her voice.