“Poor Mr. Burns! he is getting some awful reviews of ‘Wings and Winds.’ I saw one that said the volume had certainly a good deal of ‘wind’ about it, but it was difficult to discover the evidence of any wings, for the verses never mounted, but contented themselves with a snail-like crawl. Rather too bad, I think. I am no judge of poetry myself, but I liked some of those Mr. Burns showed to me. They appealed by their sheer simplicity. It will be a cruel disappointment to the poor fellow!
“By the way, I have an invitation to spend a week-end at the White House, so hope to see something of you, for you may be quite sure I shall accept so enticing an invitation.
“Shall I make a confession? I think I will. Very likely I shall wish I had not made such a fool of myself when this letter is posted—but here goes!
“I am in love with Miss Le Breton. The fact itself is natural enough. Who could be near her as I have been, so intimately, and not worship her? So beautiful! so altogether alluring! I think she likes me a little, too. If she could love me, I would not change with any man upon this earth! but—(oh, there is a big ‘but’)—how can such an angel care for a beggar like me? It is a presumption even to think of it! Yet (as Mr. Burns would quote) ‘a cat may look at a king!’ so I may at least look on my divinity, worshipping at a distance, happy if she but give me one kindly glance.
“I can see your lip curl in sarcasm as you read; or, if perchance you be in a milder mood, you smile indulgently instead.
“I never was more astonished in my life than when I heard the amazing story about Miss Lane—Mrs. Arbuthnot, I should say. I really thought you and she were secretly engaged. This should be a lesson to me not to jump to conclusions!
“No wonder the poor little thing was not looking well! She must have been fretting her heart out for her husband. Mrs. Barrimore was quite worried about her when I was at Hawk’s Nest. But you rather took the law into your own hands, didn’t you? Didn’t you have a bad quarter of an hour with the old Colonel?”
Philip read the remaining few lines of the letter, placed it in his pocket, and looked out of the window of his sitting-room, on the ground floor of a house half-way up Cannon Place.
Gloom faced him. It was that dreary time just before the street lamps are lighted.