CHAPTER XII.
THE PAL Nick's letter to his wife was written that morning while Olga lay on the study-sofa, comfortably lazy for once, and listened to the scratching of his pen.
The boys had been sent to church, Violet was again devouring a book and smoking Major Hunt-Goring's cigarettes in the hammock, and all was very quiet.
"I suppose I had better write to Jim too," Nick said, as he looked up at length from his completed epistle.
"I was just thinking I would," said Olga.
"No.

Writing is strictly prohibited by your medical adviser." Nick grinned over his shoulder.

"I'll send him a line myself." "Don't let him be worried about me," said Olga.

"I really don't know why I'm being so lazy.

I feel quite well." "And look--charming," supplemented Nick.
"Don't be silly, dear! You know I'm as hideous as--" "As I am?
Oh, no, not quite, believe me.