Almost every week brought him a letter from Eleanor--not the romantic,
carefully penned epistles she had indited to Harold Phipps, but hasty
scrawls often dashed off with a pencil. In them she described her absurd
attempts at housekeeping in the little two-room apartment; her absorbing
experiences in the dramatic school; all the ups and downs of her
wonderful new life. She was evidently enjoying her freedom, but Quin
flattered himself that between the lines he could find evidences of
discouragement, of homesickness, and of the coming disillusionment on
which he was counting to bring her home when her six months of study were
over.
It was only when Rose read him Papa Claude's lengthy effusions that his
heart misgave him. Papa Claude announced that Eleanor was sweeping
everything before her at the dramatic school, where her beauty and talent
were causing much comment, and that he had not been mistaken when he had
foreseen her destiny, and, "single-handed against the world," forced its
fulfilment.
Usually, upon reading one of Papa Claude's pyrotechnical efforts, Quin
went to see Madam Bartlett. After all, he and the old lady were paddling
in the same canoe, and their only chance of success was in pulling
together.
Pages:
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335