e. That Anthony was not there to witness
her capitulation did not affect her decision. If she was to have their
intelligent assistance, the sooner others saw it and appreciated her
plight, so much the better for her. Only her aunt and the Alisons
could possibly help at all; to those four she spoke plainly, telling
the cold facts and feeling the warmth of well-doing in tearing her
pride to tatters. Then she rent her vanity and begged their services
to find and, if necessary, plead for her with the ex-officer. The
Alisons had promised readily, but there was no confidence in their
eyes. Lady Touchstone, however, had sent her niece's hopes soaring.
She had reason, it seemed, to expect a letter. Major Lyveden had
promised to let her have his address. And, he being a man of his word,
it was bound to come--bound to come....

For more than a month Valerie hung upon every incoming post. Then she
knew that the letter had gone astray.

For the hundredth time Miss French read through the three letters which
lay before her upon the table, written in the firm, clear hand of
Anthony Lyveden. Except she drew upon the store of Memory, she had
nothing else at all that spoke of him. Hence the common envelopes
became three reliquaries, the cheap thin notepaper relics above all
price, piteously hallowed by the translation of the scribe.

The letters affording no comfort, Valerie rose and moved to a great
window which looked on to the terrace and thence into the park.
Instantly the memory of one sweet September night rose up before her--a
night when he and she had paced those flags together, while music had
floated out of the gallery, and the stars had leaped in the heavens,
and the darkness had quivered at the breath of the cool night air; when
he had wrapped his love in a fairy tale and she had listened with a
hammering heart ... when he at last had put her hand to his lips, and
she had given back the homage before he could draw away....

The terrace was worse than the letters, and Valerie turned to the
books. Idly she moved along the wall, reading the names upon the calf
bindings and not knowing whether she read them or no. A sudden desire
to look at the topmost shelves made her cross to the great step-ladder
and climb to its balustered pulpit. Before she was half-way there the
desire had faded, but she went listlessly on. Come to the top, she
turned to let her eye wander over the nearest shelf. Old, little-read
volume