She was not an imaginative woman, but it hadn’t taken much imagination after her brother’s visit to envisage what would happen to Moppett if Mr Period’s cigarette-case was not discovered. Connie had tried to tackle Moppett and, as usual, had got nowhere at all. Moppett had merely remarked that P.P. and Mr Cartell had dirty minds. When Connie had broached the topic of Leonard Leiss and his reputation, Moppett had reminded her of Leonard’s unhappy background and of how she, Moppett, was pledged to redeem him. She had assured Connie, with tears in her eyes and a great many caresses, that Leonard was indeed on the upward path. If Connie herself had had any experience at all of the Leiss milieu and any real inclination to cope with it, she might possibly have been able to bring a salutary point of view to bear on the situation. She might, it is not too preposterous to suppose, have been able to direct Moppett towards a different pattern of behaviour. But she had no experience and no real inclination. She only doted upon Moppett with the whole force of her unimaginative and uninformed being. She was in a foreign country and like many another woman of her class and kind, behaved stupidly, as a foreigner.

So she bathed and dressed and went down to breakfast in a sort of fog and ate large quantities of eggs, bacon and kidneys indifferently presented by her Austrian maid. She was still at her breakfast when she saw Alfred, in his alpaca jacket and the cloth cap he assumed for such occasions, crossing the green with an envelope in his hand.

In a moment he appeared before her.

‘I beg pardon, miss,’ Alfred said, laying the envelope on the table, ‘for disturbing you, but Mr Period asked me to deliver this. No answer is required, I understand.’ She thanked him and when he had withdrawn, opened the letter.

Silent minutes passed. Connie read and re-read the letter. Incredulity followed bewilderment and was replaced in turn by alarm. A feeling of horrid unreality possessed her and again she read the letter.

My dear: What can I say? Only that you have lost a devoted brother and I a very dear friend. I know so well, believe me so very well, what a grievous shock this has been for you and how bravely you will have taken it. If it is not an impertinence in an old fogey to do so, may I offer you these very simple lines written by my dear and so Victorian Duchess of Rampton? They are none the worse, I hope, for their unblushing sentimentality.

So must it be, dear heart, I’ll not repine,

  For while I live the Memory is Mine.