along a thorny way; and those who fear the
pain, come to it not at all. But such of us as have attained, can testify
that it is worth while. From all you have told me lately, I gather the
Best has not yet come your way. Keep on expecting. Do not be content with
less.

We certainly must not let Deryck know that Jim Airth--what a nice
name--was at Targai. He would move you on, promptly.

Report again next week; and do abide, if necessary, beneath the safe
chaperonage of the cameo brooch.

Yours, in all fidelity,
JANE DALMAIN.

CHAPTER VIII

IN HORSESHOE COVE

Lady Ingleby sat in the honeysuckle arbour, pouring her tea from a little
brown earthenware teapot, and spreading substantial slices of home-made
bread with the creamiest of farm butter, when the aged postman hobbled up
to the garden gate of the Moorhead Inn, with a letter for Mrs. O'Mara.

For a moment she could scarcely bring herself to open an envelope bearing
another name than her own. Then, smiling at her momentary hesitation, she
tore it open with the keen delight of one, who, accustomed to a dozen
letters a day, has passed a week without receiving any.

She read Mrs. Dalmain's letter through rapidly; and once she laughed
aloud; and once a sudden colour flamed into her cheeks.

Then she laid it down, and helped herself to honey--real heather-honey,
golden in the comb.

She took up her letter again, and read it carefully, weighing each word.

Then:--"Good old Jane!" she said; "that is rather neatly put: the 'safely
abstract' becoming the 'perilously personal.' She has acquired the knack
of terse and forceful phraseology from her long friendship with the
doctor. I can do it myself, when I try; only, _my_ Sir Derycky sentences
are apt merely to sound well, and mean nothing at all. And--after
all--_does_ this of Jane's mean anything worthy of consideration? Could
six foot five of abstraction--eating its breakfast in complete
unconsciousness of one's presence, returning one's timid 'good-morning'
with perfunctory politeness, and relegating one, while still debating the
possibility of venturing a remark on the weather, to obvious
oblivion--ever become perilously personal?"

Lady Ingleby laughed again, returned the letter to its envelope, and
proceeded to cut herself a slice of home-made currant cake. As she
finished it, with a final cup of tea, she