plate at breakfast a big bunch of red roses. Attached to them was a card, and on it the single word "Adieu!"
III
A month later Violet Easton sat at the writing-desk in her little private parlor. Her elbows were on the table, and her head rested on her hands. Scalding tears were in her eyes, and try as she would they forced themselves down her cheeks. Before her lay a letter, which she had read for the twentieth time.
It was a simple, commonplace note at best, and seemed hardly worthy of calling forth such feeling. It ran as follows, and was in a man's handwriting:
"My dear Miss Easton,—Remembering that you told me you expected this week to run up to New York, I write in behalf of my wife to ask if you will give us both the pleasure of your company at dinner on Thursday evening.
"If you like, we can go afterwards to the play.
"How is Midnight, and is he still performing as brilliantly as ever?
"Sincerely, J. Mordaunt."
At last, with a great effort, she stopped her tears, and wiping her eyes with her soaking handkerchief, drew out a piece of note-paper from the blotter and began to write.