“But you resigned,” she reminded him. “I remember your letter distinctly.”
“From the Double-Four,” he answered, “no resignation is recognized save death. I did what I could and they accepted my explanations, gracefully and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they think they need my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim it.”
“You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?” she begged.
He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast.
“No,” he said, “I shall not go.”
That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock, examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of day which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or other, a certain sense of weariness crept in upon him toward its close.
Two days later he received another letter. This time it was couched in different terms. On a square card, at the top of which was stamped a small coronet, he read as follows:
Madame de Maupassim at home, Saturday evening, May 2nd, at ten o’clock.
In small letters at the bottom left-hand corner were added the words:
To meet friends.