l try my best, in letters, to make
you see what I do. Ellaline wouldn't have enjoyed such a tour, for she
hates the country, or any place where it isn't suitable to wear high
heels and picture hats. But I--oh, I! Twenty dragons on the same seat of
the car with me couldn't prevent my revelling in it--though it may be
cut short for me at any minute. As for Mrs. Norton----

But the stewardess has just said we shall be in, in five minutes. I had
to come down to the ladies' cabin with Mrs. N. Now I haven't time to
tell you any more, except that they both (Sir L. and his sister, I mean)
wanted to get to England as soon as possible. I know _she_ was
disappointed not to fling her brother's ward back to Madame de Maluet,
and probably wouldn't have come over to Paris if she hadn't hoped to
bring it off; but she resigns herself to things easily when a man says
they're best. It was Sir Lionel who wanted particularly to cross
to-night, though he didn't urge it; but she said, "Very well, dear. I
think you're right."

So here we are. A large bell is ringing, and so is my heart. I mean it's
beating. Good-bye, dearest. I'll write again to-morrow--or rather
to-day, for it's a lovely sunrise, like a good omen--when we get settled
somewhere. I believe we're going to a London hotel. Yes, stewardess. Oh,
I ought to have said that to her, instead of writing it to you. She
interrupted.

Love--love.

_Your_ Audrie,

_Their_ Ellaline.

V

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Ritz Hotel, London_,
_July 8th_

Angel: May your wings never moult! I hope you didn't think me
extravagant wiring yesterday, instead of writing. I was too busy baking
the yeasty dough of my impressions to write a letter worth reading; and
when one has practically _no_ money, what's the good of being
economical? You know the sole point of sympathy I ever touched with
"Sissy" Williams was his famous speech: "If I can't earn five hundred a
year, it's not worth while worrying to earn anything"; which excused his
settling down as a "remittance man," in the top flat, at forty francs a
month.

Dearest, the Dragon hasn't drag-ged once, yet! And, by the way, till he
does so, I think I won't call him Dragon again. It's rather gratuitous,
as I'm eating his bread--or rather, his perfectly gorgeous _a la
cartes_, and am literally smeared with luxury, from my rising up until
my lying down, at his expense.

I know, and you know, because I repeated it word for word, that