When she does I will, as usual, telegraph you.
"With many thanks for your kindness to us all, "Very respectfully yours, "Mary Casson." Selwyn read this letter sitting before the fire in the living-room, feet on the fender, pipe between his teeth.

It was the first day of absolute rest he had had in a long while.
The day before he had been at the Hook until almost dark, watching the firing of a big gun, and the results had been so satisfactory that he was venturing to give himself a holiday--unless wanted at Edgewater.
But the morning had brought this letter; Alixe was contented and comfortable.

So when Boots, after breakfast, went off to his Air Line office, Selwyn permitted himself the luxury of smoking-jacket and slippers, and settled down before the fire to reread the letter and examine the enclosed bills, and ponder and worry over them at his ease.
To have leisure to worry over perplexities was something; to worry in such luxury as this seemed something so very near to happiness that as he refolded the last bill for household expenses he smiled faintly to himself.
Boots's three tabby-cats were disposed comfortably before the blaze, fore paws folded under, purring and blinking lazily at the grate.

All around were evidences of Boots's personal taste in pretty wall-paper and hangings, a few handsome Shiraz rugs underfoot, deep, comfortable chairs, low, open bookcases full of promising literature--the more promising because not contemporary.
Selwyn loved such a room as this--where all was comfort, and nothing in the quiet, but cheerful, ensemble disturbed the peaceful homeliness.
Once--and not very long since--he had persuaded himself that there had been a chance for him to have such a home, and live in it--_not_ alone.
That chance had gone--had never really existed, he knew now.

For sooner or later he must have awakened from the pleasant dreams of self-persuasion to the reality of his relentless responsibility.