agon. And you
needn't reprove me for "calling names." With singular justice Providence
has ticketed him as appropriately as his worst enemy would have dared to
do. They have such weird names in Cornwall, don't they?--and it seems
he's a Cornishman. Until lately he was plain Mister, now he's Sir Lionel
Pendragon. Somebody has been weak enough to die and leave him a title,
and also an estate (though not in Cornwall) which he's returning to
England in greedy haste to pounce upon. So characteristic, after living
away all these years; though Madame de Maluet has tried to make Ellaline
believe he's coming back to settle down because of a letter _she_ wrote,
reminding him respectfully that after nineteen it's almost indecent for
a girl to be kept at school.

Don't fear, however, if your telegram casts me to the Dragon, that I shall
be in danger of getting eaten up. His Dragonship, among other stodgy
defects, has that of eminent, well-nigh repulsive, respectability. He is
as respectable as a ramrod or a poker, and very elderly, Ellaline says.
From the way she talks about him he must be getting on for a hundred,
and he is provided with a widowed sister, a Mrs. Norton, whom he has dug
up from some place in the country to act as chaperon for his ward. All
other women he is supposed to detest, and would, if necessary, beat them
off with a stick.

II

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette_,
_Versailles_,
_July 5th_

My Spartan Angel: Now the telegram's come, I feel as if I'd
known all along what your decision would be.

I'm glad you were extravagant enough to add "Writing," for to-morrow
morning I shall know by exactly what mental processes you decided. Also,
I'm glad (I think I'm glad) that the word is "Yes."

It's afternoon now; just twenty-four hours since I sat here in the same
place (at your desk in the front window, of course), trying my best to
put the situation before you, as a plain, unvarnished tale.

I stuck the bit of blue paper under Ellaline's nose, and she almost had
a fit with joy. If she were bigger and more muscular, she'd have kissed
and squeezed the breath of life out of me, which would have been awkward
for her, as she'd then have been thrown back upon her own resources.

Oh, _ma petite poupee de Mere_, only think of it! I go to-morrow--into
space. I disappear. I cease to exist _pro tem_. There will be no me, no
Audrie, but, instead, two Ellalines. I've often told her