“Are you serious?” said Maple. “I mean, d’you mean what you say?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, this is a facer,” said Maple. “Of course, I’ll do what I can, but
you’ve disarmed me. If the thing’s to be kept quiet it looks as if that
beautiful piece of prose——”
“Will prove extremely expensive?” said Virgil, cheerfully.
“Exactly.”
“An action for breach of promise couldn’t succeed?”
“Good heavens, no. But she’ll be a nuisance.”
“Let her,” said Virgil. “I won’t pay a blinkin’ cent.”
“But what will Miss Vulliamy say?”
“That,” said Virgil sweetly, “remains to be seen. I may tell you I wrote
the letter under duress. _She made me do it._ Of course, if she likes to
buy my literature back, she’s at liberty to do so. She’s plenty of
money—or can have. Besides, it’ld be a pretty compliment. So please do
nothing for me. And just acknowledge these instructions, will you?
Before you lunch. I’ld like her to know the worst this afternoon.”
“Very good,” said Maple, laughing. “I’ll dictate a letter at once.”
_Private._
_Dear Mr. Pardoner_,
_I have carefully considered the conversation, which we had upon
the telephone this morning, and I have come to the conclusion
that, in the circumstances, your wisest course is, as you
suggest, to take no further action._
_Since the Miss June Townshend, to whom you addressed your
letter, has never in fact existed outside your imagination, and
there is, therefore, no one with whom we can confront the woman,
into whose hands that letter has fallen, the only possible move
we could make would be to offer to buy the document back._
_As, however, your hands are perfectly clean, I agree that to
make such a move would be beneath your dignity and that you can
well afford to ignore such petty molestation as that to which
this person may resort._
_An action for breach of promise could not possibly succeed._
_As I have already pointed out, her alteration of “June” to
“Jane” has, in the absence of “the original,” no bearing upon
the case._
_Yours faithfully,_
_F. S. Maple._
This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was
dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke.
Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark.
* * * * *
Exactly a month had slipped by.
There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best.
So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower.
Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from
the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than
any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new
wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side.
Presently she raised her voice.
“Virgil.”
A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended.
“Yes, darling.”
“George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.”
“So you have,” said Virgil.
“By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah.
“Serve him right,” said Virgil.
“He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.”
“So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.”
“But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching
for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’”
Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown.
“My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the
letter on.”
“Who to?” said his wife.
Virgil fingered his chin.
“The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I
think it was Bloughbridge.”