shoving herself back against her rich soft pile of silk pillows, broke open the envelope.
The letter began just as his letters used to begin, 'Cicely,'—as if he were speaking to her—and continued just as they used to continue, in the old, half-playful, half-serious vein that always so oddly pleased and piqued her. Subtle and simple both at once. Sophisticated and naïve all on one page. Such a mixture of boy and man! She smiled fondly. 'So awfully nice of you'—a girl's expression, followed by the conventional, man-of-the-world bromidism, 'Grant me the honor of thanking you in person,' and then for playfulness, 'Haven't you punished me long enough?' And for seriousness, 'Let me come and see you in the fall when I shall be quite fit again. I want to very much.' And then abruptly—his name—just one name, 'Roger,' the R kicking out its leg straight, like a small boy marching, just the way it used to.
Well, why not? After all these years, why not let him come and see her in the fall? Hadn't she punished herself long enough, too? And perhaps learned her lesson now? Not to require too much. To expect nothing, hope for nothing. To be satisfied with what he had to give.
Roger had never married. They might still become the best of friends. Their conversation had never lacked salt. Their relationship (but for the
