I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. “We’re going to be sensible. “You’re our superstar!” Turning to her foster father, she was bear hugged again, squashing the white carnations. The boy she had loved was gone. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire.
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