“I have not received a line from you in six months.”
“Then my mail must have been miscarried, for I wrote almost as frequently as usual.”
“Almost? Why not just as often?” she said, rather piqued.
“For the last few months I have been more than absorbed in my work, for the annual competition at Rome, and moments were golden.”
“Did you succeed?” she asked in breathless suspense.
“Yes, my darling,” said Milton proudly, “I won the first prize, and hastened home to lay the laurels at your feet.”
“I am proud of you, and I rejoice in your success. Now father shall come over to us,” said Marie.
“What’s the news?” asked Milton. “I just disembarked from the Germania, jumped into a cab at the wharf, drove to your residence, learned that you had started for this place, followed, and once again behold your beloved face.”
“Strange things have happened since you went abroad. You have heard about Ouida?”