CHAPTER XXII
One day when Le Breton returned from one of the mad rides he frequently indulged in, in a vain effort to assuage the pain and chagrin that raged within him, he found among a pile of letters put aside for his inspection, one with an English stamp.
Letters from that country rarely came his way. But it was not the novelty that attracted him, making him pick it out from the others, but the writing.
He had seen it once before, on a note that had turned his heaven into hell, when for the first time he had learnt what it was to be rejected by a woman.
He tore the envelope open, eager for the contents.
What had the girl to say to him? Why had she written?
With a wild throb of hope, he drew out the message.
Once he had called Pansy a little creature of rare surprises. But none equalled the surprise in store for him now.
It was not the apologies in the note he saw; nor a girl's desire to try and see things from his point of view; nor the fact that, despite everything, she was unable to break away from him.
He saw only one thing.