I must refuse responsibility for his remaining here.
I feel like a beast in saying this, but whatever shred of honour is left me forces me to say it." In the postscript there was a word that brought not a little hope and comfort.

"One thing in addition.

No more Galician festivals for me." It was a miserably cruel letter, and it did its miserably cruel work on the heart of the little white-faced lady.

She laid the letter down, drew from a box upon her table a photo, and laid it before her.
It was of two young men in football garb, in all the glorious pride of their young manhood.

Long she gazed upon it till she could see no more, and then went to pray.
It took Irma some days of thought and effort to prepare the answer to her letter, for to her, as to Kalman, English had become easier than her native Russian.