For above all things I intended to get at my
books again, to make romances instead of living them.
There were times when I longed to go to Phyllis and confide my troubles
to her, but a certain knowledge held me back.
One morning, when I had grown outwardly calm, I said to Pembroke:
"Philip, I shall go with you to India."
"Here is a letter for you," he replied; "it may change your plans."
My mail, since leaving the journalistic field, had become so small that
to receive a letter was an event. As I stretched forth a hand for the
letter my outward calm passed swiftly, and my heart spoke in a voice of
thunder. I could not recall the chirography on the envelope. The
hand, I judged, which had held the pen was more familiar with flays and
scythes. Inside of the envelope I discovered only six words, but they
meant all the world to me. "She is here at the inn." It was unsigned.
I waved the slip of paper before Pembroke's eyes.
"She is found!" I cried.
"Then go in search of her," he said.
"And you will go with me?"
"Not I! I prefer tigers to princesses. By the way, here is an article
in the Zeitung on the coming coronation of Her Serene Highness the
Princess Elizabeth of Hohenphalia.
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