Once more she re-read the letter, but it didn’t help her in the smallest degree. There was only one small ounce of comfort in it. It wasn’t Doctor Hilary who had caused the wound. Pia had merely tried to pick a quarrel with him, as she had frequently tried to pick one with herself and Tibby, because she was unhappy. If only Trix knew what had caused the unhappiness. And Pia thought she did know. If she wrote and told her now that she hadn’t the smallest conception of what she was talking about, it would in all probability rouse conjectures in Pia’s mind as to what Trix had thought. That, having in view her promise, had certainly better be avoided.
Should she, then, ignore Pia’s letter, or should she reply to it? She weighed the pros and cons of this question for the next ten minutes, and finally decided she would write, and at once.
Returning, therefore, to the hotel, she indited the following brief missive:
“My dear Pia,—
“The incident is closed so far as I am concerned. But I don’t mean to give up seeking my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I dare say most people would call it an imaginary quest. Well then, I like an imaginary quest. It helps to make me forget much that is prosaic, and a good deal that is sordid in this work-a-day world.
“Please remember me to Doctor Hilary when you see him. Best love, Pia darling,
“Trix.”
“My dear Trix,
“The rainbow vanishes, and the sordidness and the prosaicness become rather horribly apparent, especially when one finds oneself obliged to look at them after having steadily ignored their existence.