Now goodnight, dearest...
Blake read the letter, and threw it down carelessly on the table; then, leaning back in his chair, cut up a pipeful of tobacco.

He thought over his position with Ellen Harriott.

There was a secret understanding between them, a sort of informal affair born of moonlight rides and country dances.

He had never actually asked her to marry him, but he had kissed her as he had kissed scores of others, and the girl had at once taken it for granted that they were to be engaged.

It had not seemed such a bad thing for him at the time.