But the chief point is this: she laid her letters every day on the table in the passage outside her door for post--laid them all in a row, so that when one claimed one's own one couldn't help seeing them." "Well, that was open and aboveboard," I continued, beginning to fear we had hastily misjudged Miss Sissie Montague.
"Very open--too much so, in fact; for I was obliged to note the fact that she wrote two letters regularly every day of her life--'to my two mashes,' she explained one afternoon to a young man who was with her as she laid them on the table.

One of them was always addressed to Cecil Holsworthy, Esq." "And the other ?" "Wasn't." "Did you note the name ?" I asked, interested.
"Yes; here it is." She handed me a slip of paper.
I read it: "Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427, Staples Inn, London." "What, Reggie Nettlecraft!" I cried, amused.

"Why, he was a very little boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one; he afterwards went to Oxford, and got sent down from Christ Church for the part he took in burning a Greek bust in Tom Quad--an antique Greek bust--after a bump supper." "Just the sort of man I should have expected," Hilda answered, with a suppressed smile.

"I have a sort of inkling that Miss Montague likes HIM best; he is nearer her type; but she thinks Cecil Holsworthy the better match.

Has Mr.Nettlecraft money ?" "Not a penny, I should say.