I don't care to, Alixe. There is nothing to be said
except what can be written on letter-paper. And I can see neither
the necessity nor the wisdom of our writing any more letters."
For a few days no reply came; then he received such a strange, unhappy,
and desperate letter, that, astonished, alarmed, and apprehensive, he
went straight to his sister, who had run up to town for the day from
Silverside, and who had telephoned him to take her somewhere for
luncheon.
Nina appeared very gay and happy and youthful in her spring plumage, but
she exclaimed impatiently at his tired and careworn pallor; and when a
little later they were seated tete-a-tete in the rococo dining-room of a
popular French restaurant, she began to urge him to return with her,
insisting that a week-end at Silverside was what he needed to avert
physical disintegration.
"What is there to keep you in town?" she demanded, breaking bits from
the stick of crisp bread. "The children have been clamouring for you day
and night, and Eileen has been expecting a letter--You promised to write
her, Phil--!"
"I'm going to write to her," he said impatiently; "wait a moment,
Nina--don't speak of anything pleasant or--or intimate just
now--because--because I've got to bring up another matter--something not
very pleasant to me or to you.
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