‘Yes, I know.  But really I don’t want it.’

‘Have you had any letters, Frank?’

‘Yes, one.’

‘Anything important?’

‘I have hardly glanced at it yet.’

‘Glance at it now.’

’Oh, I will keep it for the train.  Good-bye, dearest.  It is time that I was off.’

’If you would only take the ammoniated quinine.  You men are so proud and obstinate.  Good-bye, darling.  Eight hours, and then I shall begin to live again.’

He had a quiet corner of a carriage to himself, so he unfolded his letter and read it.  Then he read it again with frowning brows and compressed lips.  It ran in this way —

My Dearest Frankie,—­I suppose that I should not address you like this now that you are a good little married man, but the force of custom is strong, and, after all, I knew you long before she did.  I don’t suppose you were aware of it, but there was a time when I could very easily have made you marry me, in spite of all you may know about my trivial life and adventures, but I thought it all over very carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it was not good enough.  You were always a dear good chap yourself, but your prospects were not quite dashing enough for your festive Violet.  I believe in a merry time even if it is a short one.  But if I had really wanted to settle down in a humdrum sort of way, you are the man whom I should have chosen out of the whole batch of them.  I hope what I say won’t make you conceited, for one of your best points used to be your modesty.

But for all that, my dear Frankie, I by no means give you up altogether, and don’t you make any mistake about that.  It was only yesterday that I saw Charlie Scott, and he told me all about you, and gave me your address.  Don’t you bless him?  And yet I don’t know.  Perhaps you have still a kindly thought of your old friend, and would like to see her.

But you are going to see her whether you like or not, my dear boy, so make up your mind to that.  You know how you used to chaff me about my whims.  Well, I’ve got a whim now, and I’ll have my way as usual.  I am going to see you to-morrow, and if you won’t see me under my conditions in London, I shall call at Woking in the evening.  Oh my goodness, what a bombshell!  But you know that I am always as good as my word.  So look out!

Now I’ll give you your orders for the day, and don’t you forget them.  To-morrow (Thursday, 14th, no excuses about the date) you will leave your office at 3.30.  I know that you can when you like.  You will drive to Mariani’s, and you will find me at the door.  We shall go up to our old private room, and we shall have tea together, and a dear old chat about all sorts of things.  So come!  But if you don’t, there is a train which leaves Waterloo at 6.10 and reaches Woking at 7.  I will come by it and be just in time for dinner.  What a joke it will be!

Good-bye, old boy!  I hope your wife does not read your letters, or this will rather give her fits.