’ ‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. He arrived at 6:29 sharp on the night of the Junior Prom. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. 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. “What can you do?” she asked. Jonathan mixed with the group, and, sure of his prey, abided his time. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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