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. His little doll. “I was watching you at Morningside Park, dear,” said Miss Miniver. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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