The postman broke in upon their talk. He brought two letters for René. One was from Cathleen, and very short:
“There’s been a row. I’ve been howling all night. I can’t write any more. They can’t understand. Vulgar they call you, and they are furious with me. They read one of your letters, opened it if you please. Not fit for a young girl. I’m not to have a heart till I can captivate a rich man old or young, and I am never to have a mind. It’s just beastly the things they say, but I can do nothing.”
The other letter was from her mother:
“DEAR SIR,—I have read your last letter to my daughter. It is not fit reading for a young girl, or indeed for any pure woman. You will oblige me by not writing again, and I have forbidden my daughter to continue your acquaintance.”
He passed both letters over to his mother.
“I told you it was hopeless.”
“If you ask my opinion,” replied his mother, “I should say you were well rid of her.”
“But I can’t help loving her.”
Mrs. Fourmy sniffed indignantly: