IIIJilted.
——“There can be no reason
Why, when quietly munching your dry-toast & butter
Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter
At the sight of a neat little letter addressed
In a woman’s handwriting.”
Robert Lytton: Lucile.
Guy Hastings was finishing an unusually late breakfast at his favourite resort in London, Swift’s Club, St. James St., on the morning after his parting with Georgie, when a note addressed in her well-known hand, with its girlish affectation of masculiness, was handed to him by a Club servant. Although he was surprised that she should have written so soon, (she seldom, during his trips to London, wrote to him at all) he was not excited by any stronger emotion than surprise & slight curiosity, for the words that passed between them the day before had ap
