“Mate it with this,” said Sheila, and handed him her letter.
Dear Sheila Kemble,—Better run in town and see me to-morrow. I’ve got a great play for you from France. Rehearsals begin immediately. Trusting your rest has filled you with ambition for a strenuous season, I am,
Yours faithfully,
Hy. Reben.
This threw Winfield into a panic. “But you promised me—”
“Yes, dear,” she cooed, “and I’ve already written the answer. How’s this?” She gave him the answer she had worked over for an hour, trying to make it as business-like as possible:
Letter received regret state owing change plans shall not return stage this season best wishes.
Sheila Kemble.
Even this did not allay Winfield’s alarm. “Why do you say ‘this season’?” he demanded. “Are you only marrying me for one season?”
“For all eternity,” she cried, “but I wanted to let poor old Reben down easy.”