He walked away home. When he reached his
rooms, there were some letters for him lying on the table; he took them
and looked at them; he noticed one handwriting that used to be rather
more familiar. This letter he opened first.
AIVRON LODGE, CAMPDEN HILL, _Feb._ 23.
"MY DEAR MR. MOORE,--It is really quite shocking the way you have
neglected us of late, and I, at least, cannot imagine any reason.
Perhaps we have both been in fault. My sisters and I have all been
very busy, in our several ways; and then it is awkward you should
have only the one Sunday evening free. But there, let _bygones_ be
_bygones_, and come and dine with us on Sunday, March 3, at 8.
Forgive the short notice; I've had some trouble in trying to secure
one, or two people whom I don't know very well, and I couldn't fix
earlier. The fact is, I want it to be an _intellectual_ little
dinner; and who could represent music and the drama so fitly as
yourself? I want only people with brains at it--perhaps you
wouldn't include Rockminster in that category, but I must have him
to help me, as my husband is away in Scotland looking after his
beasts.
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