“So you see, I shall never go back there. That’s the end, between them and me, isn’t it? I can’t ever be sorry I did it, you know. Except because of the famille verte. It was such glorious china, and I don’t suppose they’ll ever replace it. Uncle A. said it was very hard to get genuine pieces now-a-days. But one curious thing has happened.”
She paused.
“What is it?”
“I’ve had a letter from Diana. Ford must have told her what I did—his face looked as though he’d been fighting with the cat——” Rose interpolated, with her habitual graceless colloquialism. “But I’ll show you what she says.”
He took the letter, in the square, thick, blue-grey envelope. Diana’s handwriting was as well-bred, unindividual, and unformed as was her mentality.
My dear Rose,
Your things are all packed, and will be sent by the carrier to-morrow.
I hope you will let me know later on what your plans are. It has been a dreadful time for you, I know, and I have felt so awfully sorry for you, only it is so difficult to put things into words, and after all, there isn’t really anything that one can say, is there? Only I do want to say that I’ll do anything I can for you, any time, and I wish we could have seen more of one another.
I was very sorry not to have said good-bye properly to Cecil, you must please give him my love and best wishes when you write. This awful war!
Don’t worry about anything, as you’ve left Squires now and whatever things have happened, this dreadful war makes everything else look tiny. I hope you’ll sometimes write to me, though this letter doesn’t need any answer.