But the sudden arrival of this photo of the young Society beauty brought old memories of friendship and affection. They had played together as children; they had told their girlish secrets to each other, and it struck her that she had been wrong, and a little unkind, in withdrawing herself from the sympathy of those who were so interested in her welfare.
Gladys, no doubt, had been hurt by this attitude. She had written no note, she had not even signed the photograph. She had just sent it to recall herself to her old friend and companion. It had been sent as signal that if Sheila chose to make the smallest advance, the old relations would be at once re-established.
On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, begging Gladys to come and lunch with her that day.
“Forgive me for my long silence and absorption,” she concluded. “But I know you will understand what I have lately suffered.”
She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructions to wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila’s face flushed with pleasure as she read it.
“I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive,” wrote the warm-hearted girl. “But it will be heavenly to see you again and talk together as we used.”
She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited, kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner of women. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, she declared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was.
Gladys looked puzzled. “But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila! Which one is it? Let me see it.”
Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: “It is the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it is quite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I should have written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange—very strange! What does it mean?”
Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered: