‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. I had done the most compromising things, and behaved in the most ridiculous way. So the charge was dismissed. And your great-niece.
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