From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. 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. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. ” “No. "I'm your dupe no longer.
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