“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. They had been married for well over one hundred years. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living. ‘And it is perhaps not so necessary that I do so, because Joan has told me of another who may like to say I am the daughter of Mary Remenham.
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