MRS. DRIFFIELD very kindly offered to send me back to Blackstable in her
car, but I preferred to walk. I promised to dine at Ferne Court next day
and meanwhile to write down what I could remember of the two periods
during which I had been in the habit of seeing Edward Driffield. As I
walked along the winding road, meeting no one by the way, I mused upon
what I should say. Do they not tell us that style is the art of
omission? If that is so I should certainly write a very pretty piece,
and it seemed almost a pity that Roy should use it only as material. I
chuckled when I reflected what a bombshell I could throw if I chose.
There was one person who could tell them all they wanted to know about
Edward Driffield and his first marriage; but this fact I proposed to
keep to myself. They thought Rosie was dead; they erred; Rosie was very
much alive.
Being in New York for the production of a play and my arrival having
been advertised to all and sundry by my manager’s energetic press
representative, I received one day a letter addressed in a handwriting I
knew but could not place. It was large and round, firm but uneducated.
It was so familiar to me that I was exasperated not to remember whose it
was. It would have been more sensible to open the letter at once, but
instead I looked at the envelope and racked my brain. There are
handwritings I cannot see without a little shiver of dismay and some
letters that look so tiresome that I cannot bring myself to open them
for a week. When at last I tore open the envelope what I read gave me a
strange feeling. It began abruptly:
_I have just seen that you are in New York and would like to see
you again. I am not living in New York any more, but Yonkers is
quite close and if you have a car you can easily do it in half
an hour. I expect you are very busy so leave it to you to make a
date. Although it is many years since we last met I hope you
have not forgotten your old friend_