Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. Do so; and I am yours as heretofore. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. My father died a year ago, by the way. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares—long after Thames Darrell is forgotten—ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept. “But I must, I will,” he answered fiercely. The theme was a masquerade.
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