Some thirty-six hours had gone by.
Joan Purchase Atlee was nearing Biarritz, Peregrine was in a car heading for Havre, and Mrs. Carey Below was sitting in a Paris hotel, staring upon a letter, with her eyes aflame and her underlip caught in her teeth.
A second letter lay on the floor by her side, its single sheet crumpled as though in wrath.
By your leave, I will straighten it out.
Dear Marion,
I have decided that we are better apart. If you will write to Forsyth, saying you accept this decision, he will send you a cheque for five hundred pounds, and, so long as you do not seek to avoid this decision, on application to Forsyth, one thousand pounds will be paid to you every quarter.
Peregrine.
The second letter, though not the envelope, was in the same handwriting. Mrs. Below had dictated it—some seven years ago.
My dear Joan,
This is rather a difficult letter to write, but I have come to the conclusion that it would be a fatal mistake for us to be married. We’re friends, I know, but there must be something more than friendship if marriage is to be a success. Where there is no true understanding there can never be real happiness. I am sure that after a little you will see the force of my words and realize with me that I am taking the wisest, although by no means the easiest, course in asking you to release me from my engagement. If I don’t hear from you I shall know that you agree.