A little smile, almost maternal in its tenderness, curved her lips. She had
always hoped that Tony's love for her might prove to be only a red-hot
boyish infatuation, grounded on propinquity and friendship, which the
passage of time would cure, and if, now, man's love was being born in him
and she could keep the old friendship, it would give her complete
happiness. But she questioned rather anxiously whether Doreen Neville was
possessed of a strong enough character to keep him straight. She was so
sweet and fragile--the kind of woman to be petted and cossetted and taken
care of by some big, kind-hearted man, not in the least the type to steady
a headstrong young fool, bent upon blundering on to the rocks.
Tony's letter was in the pocket of her coat, and, pulling it out, she ran
through it again. There was no further mention of Doreen Neville, but she
found that there was a postscript scribbled in a corner, in Tony's most
illegible scrawl, which she had overlooked when reading the letter at
breakfast time.
_"Much as you disapprove, little Puritan Ann, do wish me luck at
the tables! Such, luck as we had that night at Montricheux. Do you
remember?"_
Ann's heart contracted suddenly.
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