Now we come to the letter which Patrick wrote to Daisy, telling her that it was all over.  He would explain to her how he had “accidentally"(he would dwell upon that) accidentally overheard her and her——­(probably he was rather coarse here) exchanging terms of endearment; he would accuse her of betraying one whose only fault was that he loved her not wisely but too well; he would announce gloomily that he had lost his faith in women.  All this is certain.  But it would appear also that he made some such threat as this—­most likely in a postscript:  “It is no good your writing.  There can be no explanation.  Your letters will be destroyed unopened.”  It is a question, however, if even this would have prevented Daisy from trying an appeal by post, for though one may talk about destroying letters unopened, it is an extremely difficult thing to do.  I feel, therefore, that Patrick’s letter almost certainly contained a P.P.S. also—­to this effect:  “I cannot remain in London where we have spent so many happy hours together.  I am probably leaving for the Rocky Mountains to-night.  Letters will not be forwarded.  Do not attempt to follow me.”

And so Daisy was left with only the one means of communication and explanation—­the agony columns of the morning newspapers.  “I was alone when you called.  You heard me talking to the dog.  Please make appointment.”  In the last sentence there is just a hint of irony which I find very attractive.  It seems to me to say, “Don’t for heaven’s sake come rushing back to Notting Hill (all love and remorse) without warning, or you might hear me talking to the cat or the canary.  Make an appointment, and I’ll take care that there’s nothing in the room when you come.”  We may tell ourselves, I think, that Daisy understands her Patrick.  In fact, I am beginning to understand Patrick myself, and I see now that the real reason why Daisy chose the agony column as the medium of communication was that she knew Patrick would prefer it.  Patrick is distinctly the sort of man who likes agony columns.  I am sure it was the first thing he turned to on Wednesday morning.

It occurs to me to wonder if the honeymoon will be spent at Ilfracombe.  Patrick must have received William Benson’s picture post card too.  We have all had one.  Just fancy if he had gone to the Rocky Mountains; almost certainly Mr. Benson’s letters would not have been forwarded.

The Label

On those rare occasions when I put on my best clothes and venture into society, I am always astonished at the number of people in it whom I do not know.  I have stood in a crowded ball-room, or sat in a crowded restaurant, and reflected that, of all the hundreds of souls present, there was not one of whose existence I had previously had any suspicion.  Yet they all live tremendously important lives, lives not only important to themselves but to numbers of friends and relations; every day they cross some sort of Rubicon; and to each one of them there comes a time when the whole of the rest of the world (including—­confound it!—­me) seems absolutely of no account whatever.  That I had lived all these years in contented ignorance of their existence makes me a little ashamed.