In his friendly letter, Moncharmont chatted of a
certain Polish girl with whom he had newly made acquaintance, whose
beauty, according to the good Andre, was a thing to dream of, not to
tell. It meant nothing, as Piers knew. The cosmopolitan Swiss fell
in love some dozen times a year, with maidens or women of every
nationality and every social station. Be the issue what it might, he
was never unhappy. He had a gallery of photographs, and delighted to
pore over it, indulging reminiscences or fostering hopes. Once in a
twelvemonth or so, he made up his mind to marry, but never went
further than the intention. It was doubtful whether he would ever
commit himself irrevocably. "It seems such a pity," he often said,
with his pensively humorous smile, "to limit the scope of one's
emotions--_borner la carriere a ses emotions_!" Then he sighed,
and was in the best of spirits.
Not even to Moncharmont--with whom he talked more freely than with
any other man--had Piers ever spoken of Irene. Andre of course
suspected some romantic attachment, and was in constant amaze at
Piers' fidelity.
"Ah, you English! you English!" he would exclaim. "You are the
stoics of the modern world. I admire; yes, I admire; but, my friend,
I do not wish to imitate."
The letter cheered Otway's breakfast; he read it instead of the
newspaper, and with vastly more benefit.
Another letter had come to his private address, a note from Mrs.
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