She bit her lip and frowned. The note was useless and tactless as well.

If he had wished to please her he might have written a word of

greeting, as if nothing had happened, just to say that he wished he

could have seen her for a few minutes. It would have been so easy to do

that instead of sending a superfluous apology for having been rude on

purpose! She read the note again and grew angry over it. It was so

gratuitous! If he really meant to avoid her always, he need not have

written at all. 'Superfluous' was the word; it was superfluous. She

tore the letter into little bits and threw them into the basket; and

then, by an afterthought, she fished up Logotheti's note, which she had

not torn, and read it again.

At all events, he was a man of the world and could cover two pages of

note-paper without saying anything that could irritate a woman. Like

everything he said, what he wrote was just right. He did not protest

that he could not use his motor car himself, and he did not apologise

for taking the liberty of offering her the use of it; he did not even

ask for an answer, as if he were trying to draw her into writing to

him. The car would be at the gate, and he would be glad if she could

use it; meaning that if she did not want it she could send it away.

There was not the least shade of familiarity in the phrases.

'Respectful homage' was certainly not 'familiar.' Just because he did

not ask for an answer, he should have one!

She took up her pen and began. When she had written three or four lines

to thank him, she found herself going on to say more, and she told him

of the change in regard to her début, and asked if he knew why it

was made so suddenly. She explained why she preferred Faust to

Rigoletto, and all at once she saw that she had filled a sheet and

must either break off abruptly or take another. She finished the note

hastily and signed her name. When it was done she remembered that she

had not told him anything about the money which had unexpectedly come

to her, and she hesitated a moment; but she decided that it was none of

his business, and almost wondered why she had thought of telling him

anything so entirely personal. She sealed the letter, stamped it and

sent it to be posted.

Then she sat down at her piano to look over Rigoletto, whistling her

part softly while she played, in order to save her voice, and in a few

minutes she had forgotten Logotheti, Schreiermeyer and Lushington.




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