"
So it was that when brother and sister were seated at a small table on
the ground-floor of a well-known Regent Street restaurant, Miss Burgoyne
had writing materials brought her, and she wrote her letter while Jim
was in shy confabulation with the waiter. It was not a lengthened
epistle; it ran so:
"Tuesday.
"DEAR PERCY.--Let it be as you wish.
"Your loving
"KATE.
"P.S. When shall you be in town? Come and see me."
She folded and enclosed and addressed the letter; but she did not give
it to the waiter to post. It was of too great moment for that. She put
it in her pocket; she would herself see it safely despatched.
Well, for a boy, Jim had not done so badly; though, to be sure, his
sister did not seem to pay much attention to these delicacies. Her brain
was too busy. As she trifled with this thing or that, or sipped a little
wine, she said,
"Jim, I know what the dream of your life is--it's to go to a big
pheasant-shoot."
"Oh, is it?" he said, with the scorn born of superior knowledge. "Not
much. I've tried my hand at pheasants.
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