"JIM."
A week later he heard from her: "I've found out from people in Keno. She was a Mrs. Atherstane—divorced hubby, and resumed her maiden name of Wemyss with the prefix Mrs. Did you ever hear of her? Scott Wallace and I detest her.
"DIANA."
He did not reply, partly because the constant recurrence of Wallace's name in her letters had begun to annoy him—partly because what he had to say must be said to Inwood; and at that miserable young man he launched the following:
"DEAR BILLY:
"You're a fine specimen. What are you, anyway—a lap dog or a Chow pup? Get rid of that woman! I don't care whether or not you made an ass of yourself over her by sympathizing with her. Old Atherstane had no more mistresses than the majority of church pillars and public benefactors in town; and, anyway, it was not up to you to dry her weeps.
"Don't make any mistake—the ci-devant Mrs. Atherstane can look out for herself. She needs no consideration from you; she doesn't deserve any, either. What kind of a woman is she, anyhow—taking advantage of a chivalrous and conscientious boy who never did more than hold her hand and pat it, at most, when she told him she was lonely and unhappy, and needed a good man's moral support?
"Rot! You're not responsible for her. You're not in honor bound to sit around and await her pleasure, now that she's free to marry. She wouldn't have you, anyway.
"You probably made an ass of yourself—probably talked too much. You're not in honor bound, I tell you. And don't make any mistake—she's not going to marry. She's having too good a time. I know that kind of woman, Billy. They never put their heads into the noose a second time; but they harpoon all the men they can, and they trail around with a lot of silly ginks like you.
"If you don't believe me, I'll tell you how to put yourself out of your misery. Ask her to marry you; ask her flatly. You'll wake up, then. I know what I'm saying. You do what I tell you, and then get back to first principles, and clear up all this nightmare between a sweet and plucky little girl and your own dam-fool self. Clear it up, I tell you. I know you, Billy. You have nothing to confess in regard to Mrs. Wemyss. Of course, you wouldn't confess, anyway; but, thank God! there's nothing to say except that you were a silly ass, and have learned better.