“It’s got to go off to-night,” said Cicely Voile.
“Well, don’t you rush me,” said Toby. “It’s a very delicate job. Any fool can say ‘The engagement’s off,’ but that won’t do for Aunt Ira. What I’ve got to do is to word it in such a way as to stifle the instinct of cross-examination. Well, bein’ an optimist, I’m not going to say it’s impossible, but, if I can’t do it, she won’t come over for the day—she’ll come for a week. I shouldn’t wait for that. I’ve only one heart. But she’ll metaphorically sack Biarritz.”
“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said Cicely. “Shove it on to me. Say you find I’m a waster. I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” said Toby violently.
Cicely shrugged her fair shoulders.
Presently—
“Read me as far as you’ve got,” she commanded.
Captain Rage cleared his throat.
My dear Aunt Ira,
When I remember our fortunate encounter yesterday afternoon and your subsequent kind hospitality at the Hôtel de France, I find it more than painful to have to tell you that the marriage which had been arranged between Miss Voile and myself will not take place. The rupture between us is still so recent that I am not in a condition of mind conducive to conducting correspondence, still less to recording in black and white the ruin of my hopes, but I feel that in view of the interest which you were good enough to take in my engagement, it is my duty, cost what it may, to put you in immediate possession of the unhappy truth. This, I fear, may possibly affect your decision to come to Biarritz. I do not propose to weary you with the details of our sudden estrangement further than to confess . . .