"Heavens, what a selfish fellow!" said Carl, turning back to the window.
Silence fell between them again. The soft breeze came sighing in at the window ruffling Carl's sunny curls and caressing Leslie Dane's cheek with viewless fingers.
A pot of violets on the window ledge filled the air with delicate perfume. After that evening the scent of violets always came to Leslie Dane wedded to a painful memory.
There was a heavy step at the door. Their portly landlady pushed her head into the room.
"Letters, gentlemen," she said.
Carl Muller sprang up with alacrity.
"All for me, of course," he said. "Nobody ever writes to Dane."
He took the packet and went back to his seat, while his companion, with a smothered sigh, went on with his work. It was quite true that no one ever wrote to him, yet he still kept waiting and hoping for one dear letter that never—never came.
"Ah, by Jove! but I was mistaken," Carl broke out suddenly. "Hurrah, Leslie, here's a love letter from the girl you left behind you."