Elfrida warmed her hands upon the cylinder and made herself some tea.

With it she disposed of a great many sweet biscuits from the biscuit box, and thereafter lighted a cigarette.

As she smoked she re-read an old letter, a long letter in a flowing foreign hand, written from among the haymakers at Barbizon, that exhaled a delicate perfume.

Elfrida had read it thrice for comfort in the afternoon; now she tasted it, sipping here and there with long enjoyment of its deliciousness.

She kissed it as she folded it up, with the silent thought that this was the breath of her life, and soon--oh, passably soon--she could bear the genius in Nadie's eyes again.
Then she went to bed.