"Well," she said, as they reached the hotel portal, "what is your advice?" "Would you follow it?" "Probably not. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. After quarter of an hour, she followed. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. “Your mother was a Gypsy. It has been a marvellous day—and I am going to England.
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