THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
does. Three or four times a year they come, fat, thick letters, almost like story-books, so crammed full of life and the expression of life are they. He drops into the nearest consulate when he writes. About four years ago I left school with a companion. He insisted that I should see the world. We went everywhere. I crossed his path a hundred times, it seemed to me, but I never caught up with him. Once I almost had him—in Singapore. There was a letter for me there. It was only two days old, they said at the consulate. I had missed a boat from Penang. In missing the boat I missed him. He had gone down to Batavia. My disappointment was so keen that I cried myself to sleep that night. I was in Naples, on my return from wandering, when I received the cable which brought me to New York. He had bought your home, and it was ready for me to occupy. But, fast as I came, once again I missed him. I found a letter—a brief one this time—explaining my finances. I had a home, bank accounts, and stocks and bonds. With the exception of the home, all had been held in trust for me for years." She smiled and looked up
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