"She lays letters addressed to you on the hall table at her lodgings in
Scarborough."

"The dickens she does! Careless little beggar! Yes, she writes to
me--pages. She's awfully gone on me, really. She'd marry me if it wasn't
for the Johnnie with the dibs. She doesn't care for HIM: she wants his
money. He dresses badly, don't you see; and, after all, the clothes make
the man! I'D like to get at him. I'D spoil his pretty face for him." And
he assumed a playfully pugilistic attitude.

"You really want to get rid of this other fellow?" I asked, seeing my
chance.

"Get rid of him? Why, of course! Chuck him into the river some nice dark
night if I could once get a look at him!"

"As a preliminary step, would you mind letting me see one of Miss
Montague's letters?" I inquired.

He drew a long breath. "They're a bit affectionate, you know," he
murmured, stroking his beardless chin in hesitation. "She's a hot 'un,
Sissie is. She pitches it pretty warm on the affection-stop, I can tell
you. But if you really think you can give the other Johnnie a cut on the
head with her letters--well, in the interests of true love, which never
DOES run smooth, I don't mind letting you have a squint, as my friend,
at one of her charming billy-doos."

He took a bundle from a drawer, ran his eye over one or two with a
maudlin air, and then selected a specimen not wholly unsuitable for
publication. "THERE'S one in the eye for C.," he said, chuckling. "What
would C. say to that, I wonder? She always calls him C., you know; it's
so jolly non-committing. She says, 'I only wish that beastly old bore
C. were at Halifax--which is where he comes from and then I would fly
at once to my own dear Reggie! But, hang it all, Reggie boy, what's the
good of true love if you haven't got the dibs? I MUST have my comforts.
Love in a cottage is all very well in its way; but who's to pay for the
fizz, Reggie?' That's her refinement, don't you see? Sissie's awfully
refined. She was brought up with the tastes and habits of a lady."

"Clearly so," I answered. "Both her literary style and her liking for
champagne abundantly demonstrate it!" His acute sense of humour did not
enable him to detect the irony of my observation. I doubt if it extended
much beyond oyster shells. He handed me the letter. I read it through
with equal amusement and gratification. If Miss Sissie had written it
on purpose in order to open Cecil Holsworthy's eyes, she couldn't have
managed t