Lucile, don't mind! We _won't_ do
anything--disgraceful."

"You see what a cat I am," she told March as they set out. "I make her
squirm without meaning to, and then, when she squirms, I scratch. Now
talk to me until I can get in good humor with myself again."

"I've two or three things to tell you," he said. "I saw Sylvia Stannard
this morning. She came to rehearsal with the little Williamson girl, and
carried me off bodily for a talk. She's had a long letter from Graham.

"He's quite well," he went on swiftly, ignoring the gasp she gave, "and
doesn't want to be, as he says, fussed over."

"Where is he?" she asked. "I'll write him a letter, of course. Only
you'll have to tell me what to say."

"He's visiting a friend--a college classmate--on Long Island. And he's
already had a job offered him by his friend's father, in an engineering
office. He's a pretty good engineer, I believe. He thinks he'll accept
it. Anyhow, he is definitely not coming back to Hickory Hill. Sylvia
attaches some significance to the fact that his friend also has a pretty
sister, but that's just the cynicism of youth, I suspect."

This last suggestion silenced her--with another gasp, as perhaps he had
meant it to do. He added, presently:

"As for writing, I've already done that myself."

"You!" she exclaimed. "Where's the letter?"

"It's already despatched. I wrote it as soon as the rehearsal was over.
But I'll tell you what I said in it. I told him I supposed he had heard
of our engagement, but that I knew you wished him to be told of it
personally. You were very fond of him, I said, and the only thing that
clouded your happiness was a fear that he might not be able to share it.
I assured him that I was completely in your confidence and knew that you
had been through a period of very severe nervous stress, verging upon a
nervous breakdown, but that I believed you were on the way to a speedy
recovery. And I ended by saying that I believed a line from him to you,
setting some of your misgivings at rest, would hasten it. And I was his
most cordially."

She didn't try to pretend she wasn't aghast at this. "But what
an--extraordinary letter. Won't he be--furious? At you for
writing?--Speaking for me in a case like that. Telling him you knew all
about it!"

"Well, that was more or less the idea," he confessed, with a rueful grin.
"He'll think I stole you away from him; he'll think I gave you the
nervous prostration I hinted at. Heaven knows