“MY DEAR GRAHAM, [the letter ran],

“Forgive me for writing, but I must tell you that I’ve seen you twice with Julie (and each time neither of you saw anyone else but yourselves!).  It seems mean to see you and not say so, but for the Lord’s sake don’t think it’ll go further, or that I reproach you.  I’ve been there myself, old bird, and in any case I don’t worry about other people’s shows.  But I want to tell you a bit of news—­Tommy Raynard and I have fixed it up.  I know you’ll congratulate me.  She’s topping, and just the girl for me—­no end wiser than I, and as jolly as anyone, really.  I don’t know how you and Julie are coming out of it, and I won’t guess, for it’s a dreadful war; but maybe you’ll be able to sympathise with me at having to leave my girl in France!  However, I’m off back to-morrow, a day before you.  If you hadn’t run off to Paris, you’d have known.  My leave order was from Havre.

“Well, cheerio.  See you before long.  And just one word, my boy, from a fellow who has seen a bit more than you (if you’ll forgive me):  remember, Julie’ll know best.

“Yours, ever,
“JACK DONOVAN.”

Peter frowned over his letter, and then smiled, and then frowned again.  He was still at it when he heard Julie’s footstep outside, and he thrust the envelope quickly into his pocket, thinking rapidly.  He did not in the least understand what the other meant, especially by the last sentence, and he wanted to consider it before showing Julie.  Also, he wondered if it was meant to be shown to Julie at all.  He thought not; probably Donovan was absolutely as good as his word, and would not even mention anything to Tommy.  But he thought no more, for Julie was on him.

“Peter, it’s started to rain!  I knew it would.  Why does it always rain on Sundays in London?  Probably the heavens themselves weep at the sight of so gloomy a city.  However, I don’t care a damn!  I’ve made up my mind what we’re going to do.  We shall sit in front of the fire all the morning, and you shall read to me.  Will you?”

“Anything you like, my darling,” he said; “and we couldn’t spend a better morning.  But bacon and eggs first, eh?  No, fish first, I mean.  But pour out a cup of tea at once, for Heaven’s sake. I haven’t had a drop this morning.”

“Poor old thing!  No wonder you’re a bit off colour.  No early tea after that champagne last night!  But, oh, Peter, wasn’t Carminetta a dream?”

Breakfast over, Peter sat in a chair and bent over her.  “What do you want me to read, Julie darling?” he demanded.

She considered. “Not a magazine, not La Vie Parisienne, though we might perhaps look at the pictures part of the time.  I know!  Stop!  I’ll get it,” She ran out and returned with a little leather-covered book.  “Read it right through, Peter,” she said.  “I’ve read it heaps of times, but I want to hear it again to-day.  Do you mind?”