* * * * *
'Dearest,' it ran, 'as I explained in my telegram, my husband became
suddenly ill'--('if she _had_ only put that in the telegram,' he
groaned)--'and was ordered to Homburg. Of course it was impossible to
leave him in this crisis, both for practical and sentimental reasons.
You yourself, darling, would not like me to have aggravated his illness
by my flight just at this moment, and thus possibly have his death on my
conscience.' ('Darling, you are always right,' he said, kissing the
letter.) 'Let us possess our souls in patience a little longer. I need
not tell you how vexatious it will be to find myself nursing him in
Homburg--out of the season even--instead of the prospect to which I had
looked forward with my whole heart and soul. But what can one do? How
true is the French proverb, 'Nothing happens but the unexpected'! Write
to me immediately _Poste Restante_, that I may at least console myself
with your dear words.'
The unexpected did indeed happen. Despite draughts of Elizabeth-brunnen
and promenades on the Kurhaus terrace, the stalwart woman beater
succumbed to his malady.
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