From her bereaved husband, with whom I at once communicated, I received the following reply:
"Dear Sir,
"Yours to hand announcing the accidental death of my wife, which I need not say I deeply regret. You will be interested to hear that I have been offered a commission in the Royal Fusiliers, which I am now able to accept. In view of the same, any expense to which you may be put to give my late wife honourable burial, I shall be most ready to defray.
"With many thanks for your kindness in informing me of this unfortunate circumstance,
"I am,
"Yours faithfully, "JOHN P. TUFTON."
"I think he's a horrid, callous, cold-blooded fellow!" cried Betty when I showed her this epistle.
"After all," said I, "she wasn't a model wife. If the fatal motor-car hadn't come along, the probability is that she would have received poor Tufton on his next leave with something even more deadly than a poker. Now and again the Fates have brilliant inspirations. This was one of them. Now, you see the virago-clogged Tufton is a free man, able to accept a commission and start a new life as an officer and a gentleman."
"I think you're perfectly odious. Odious and cynical," she exclaimed wrathfully.
"I think," said I, "that a living warrior is better than a dead— Disappointment."