XXXVI

That was two years ago. We still live on the island. Before me, on the rough wooden table, is the letter that Suzanne wrote me.

Dear Babes in the Wood⁠—Dear Lunatics in Love,

I’m not surprised⁠—not at all. All the time we’ve been talking Paris and frocks I felt that it wasn’t a bit real⁠—that you’d vanish into the blue some day to be married over the tongs in the good old gipsy fashion. But you

are