Searching the pigeonholes and drawers, moving everything
that lay about, he twitched the bust--and the letter lay disclosed. He
took it up with a sigh of relief:
"DEAR BRYAN,
"But I say--you ARE wasting yourself. Why, my dear, of course! 'Il faut
se faire valoir!' You have only one foot to put forward; the other is
planted in I don't know what mysterious hole. One foot in the grave--at
thirty! Really, Bryan! Pull it out. There's such a lot waiting for you.
It's no good your being hoity-toity, and telling me to mind my business.
I'm speaking for everyone who knows you. We all feel the blight on the
rose. Besides, you always were my favourite cousin, ever since I was
five and you a horrid little bully of ten; and I simply hate to think
of you going slowly down instead of quickly up. Oh! I know 'D--n the
world!' But--are you? I should have thought it was 'd--ning' you!
Enough! When are you coming to see us? I've read that book. The man
seems to think love is nothing but passion, and passion always fatal. I
wonder! Perhaps you know.
"Don't be angry with me for being such a grandmother.
"Au revoir.
"Your very good cousin,
"DIANA LEYTON."
He crammed the letter into his pocket, and sat there, appalled. It must
have lain two days under that bust! Had Gyp seen it? He looked at the
bronze face; and the philosopher looked back from the hollows of his
eyes, as if to say: "What do you know of the human heart, my boy--your
own, your mistress's, that girl's, or anyone's? A pretty dance the heart
will lead you yet! Put it in a packet, tie it round with string, seal it
up, drop it in a drawer, lock the drawer! And to-morrow it will be out
and skipping on its wrappings.
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