Rhoda laughed and went away, leaving Miss Barfoot with the impression that she had revealed a genuine impulse.  It seemed not impossible that Rhoda might wish to say to her lover:  ’Face this monstrous scandal and I am yours.

A week passed and there arrived a letter, with a foreign stamp, addressed to Miss Nunn.  Happening to receive it before Miss Barfoot had come down to breakfast, she put in away in a drawer till evening leisure, and made no mention of its arrival.  Exhilaration appeared in her behaviour through the day.  After dinner she disappeared, shutting herself up to read the letter.

’DEAR MISS NUNN,—­I am sitting at a little marble table outside a cafe on the Cannibiere.  Does that name convey anything to you?  The Cannibiere is the principal street of Marseilles, street of gorgeous cafe’s and restaurants, just now blazing with electric light.  You, no doubt, are shivering by the fireside; here it is like an evening of summer.  I have dined luxuriously, and I am taking my coffee whilst I write.  At a table near to me sit two girls, engaged in the liveliest possible conversation, of which I catch a few words now and then, pretty French phrases that caress the ear.  One of them is so strikingly beautiful that I cannot take my eyes from her when they have been tempted to that quarter.  She speaks with indescribable grace and animation, has the sweetest eyes and lips—­

’And all the time I am thinking of some one else.  Ah, if you were here!  How we would enjoy ourselves among these southern scenes!  Alone, it is delightful; but with you for a companion, with you to talk about everything in your splendidly frank way!  This French girl’s talk is of course only silly chatter; it makes me long to hear a few words from your lips—­strong, brave, intelligent.

’I dream of the ideal possibility.  Suppose I were to look up and see you standing just in front of me, there on the pavement.  You have come in a few hours straight from London.  Your eyes glow with delight.  To-morrow we shall travel on to Genoa, you and I, more than friends, and infinitely more than the common husband and wife!  We have bidden the world go round for our amusement; henceforth it is our occupation to observe and discuss and make merry.

’Is it all in vain?  Rhoda, if you never love me, my life will be poor to what it might have been; and you, you also, will lose something.  In imagination I kiss your hands and your lips.

EVERARD BARFOOT.’

There was an address at the head of this letter, but certainly Barfoot expected no reply, and Rhoda had no thought of sending one.  Every night, however, she unfolded the sheet of thin foreign paper, and read, more than once, what was written upon it.  Read it with external calm, with a brow of meditation, and afterwards sat for some time in absent mood.

Would he write again?  Her daily question was answered in rather more than a fortnight.  This time the letter came from Italy; it was lying on the hall table when Rhoda returned from Great Portland Street, and Miss Barfoot was the first to read the address.  They exchanged no remark.  On breaking the envelope—­she did so at once—­Rhoda found a little bunch of violets crushed but fragrant.