“Do they make any allusion to it?” asked Ludovic, with boyish amusement in his laughing eyes.
Lady Argent scanned the closely-written sheets.
“No, dear. ‘Those good and useful gifts, such joy for poor people’—that can’t be the hair-brush, can it?—‘we can never thank you enough for your generosity to us’—dear, dear, it does make one feel so dreadfully mean. ‘We shall have the wherewithal to decorate a Christmas-tree for our little ones’—Ludovic! they can’t give the poor children my broken air-cushion or that torn mackintosh of yours—or the old dog-collar. ‘You will certainly be rewarded for this great generosity and our poor prayers....’ Oh dear, dear, this is very touching,” said poor Lady Argent, folding up her letter with an air of remorse.
“Perhaps they can get money by selling the things after they’ve mended them up,” whispered Frances consolingly. Ludovic heard her, and looked at her very kindly, but he only said:
“Now, mother, tell me what your next correspondent means by putting ‘Sag’ in the corner of the envelope? Is it the same sort of thing as Mizpah or Swastika, or whatever the thing is that housemaids have on their brooches?”
“No, dear,” said Lady Argent with an air of great reserve. “Quite different. It isn’t ‘Sag’ at all.”
Ludovic held out a corner of the envelope to Frances.
“I appeal to you. If that isn’t ‘Sag,’ what is it?”
She looked, half-laughing, towards Lady Argent.
“Ludovic, dear, pray don’t be so ridiculous. It’s S.A.G., my dear boy, and stands for ‘St. Anthony guide,’ just to make sure the letter doesn’t go astray. I don’t say I put it on my own letters but it’s a very pious little custom—and letters might get lost, you know.”