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. In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. I wondered what you could be doing and what might be happening to you. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. A slow anger burned in the man.
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