“MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. Before a year has expired, you will share the same fate. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. “Will you help me?” he asked. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald. No trouble will ever come to your sister through me.
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