She turned the next page and the next, and her eyes grew interested, absorbed, enthusiastic.

There were some more, one or two, but she did not see them.
Her house of hope built itself again.

"A mere slip," she said, reassured; and then, as her eye fell on a little fat dictionary that held down a pile of papers, "But I'll go over them all in the morning, to make sore, with _that_." Then she turned with new pleasure to the finished work of the night, settled the sheets together, put them in an envelope, and addressed it: _The Editor,_ _The Consul,_ _6 Tibby's Lane,_ _Fleet Street, E.C._ She hesitated before she wrote.

Should she write "The Editor" only, or "George Alfred Curtis, Esq.," first, which would attract his attention, perhaps, as coming from somebody who knew his name.

She had a right to know his name, she told herself; she had met him once in the happy Paris days.