Sir,
Your favour duly to hand. I heartily rejoice at your good fortune, and trust you may live long and have health to enjoy it. Do not for an instant consider yourself under any obligations to me, for you are perfectly free. Choose some one who will reflect more credit on your taste and sense.
With all good wishes,
Faithfully yrs,
S. PENELOPE MELVYN.
As I closed and directed this how far away Harold Beecham seemed! Less than two years ago I had been familiar with every curve and expression of his face, every outline of his great figure, every intonation of his strong cultivated voice; but now he seemed as the shadow of a former age.
He wrote in reply: What did I mean? Was it a joke—just a little of my old tormenting spirit? Would I explain immediately? He couldn’t get down to see me for a fortnight at the least.
I explained, and very tersely, that I had meant what I said, and in return received a letter as short as my own:
Dear Miss Melvyn,
I regret your decision, but trust I have sufficient manhood to prevent me from thrusting myself upon any lady, much less you.
Your sincere friend,
HAROLD AUGUSTUS BEECHAM.
He did not demand a reason for my decision, but accepted it unquestionably. As I read his words he grew near to me, as in the days gone by.