“Now you are here, Socrate, you can do me a favor,” Helia interrupted, not even listening to his compliments. “First, throw these letters for me into the waste-basket.”
“Must I throw that of Mlle. la Princesse also? What is she writing there? Can I see?”
“No!” Sœurette answered.
“Is it a secret? Well, I won’t insist,” Socrate said, and straightway stretched his neck over the screen and read:
“To the Little Jesus: They say, Little Jesus, that up there in heaven you have a wonderful bazaar, with all the playthings which are in all the earth and some that are not. There is no doubt of it, Little Jesus, is there? Well, then, cure Glanrhyd and send me a little white dog—a curly one that barks. I’d like to have a doll dressed for her wedding, and a little china table service; and let it be pretty—very, very pretty!”
“A letter to Little Jesus?” Socrate thought to himself. “There’s a letter which won’t be delivered!”
Meanwhile Helia was reading her morning’s mail. There was nothing new in it; she had received hundreds of such letters. “Mademoiselle, pardon me, if I dare—” “Mademoiselle, will you allow an admirer of your talent and your beauty—” And so on, and so forth.
Helia did not even read them through to the end. She blushed, not with shame, but with pity for such foolish adorers.
“Do they take me for a toy? Into the basket!” And she held out the letters to Socrate.
“Why, she is crazy!” Socrate thought. “All these letters—they’d be magnificent for blackmailing!”