It is hardly necessary to intimate that this letter came as something of
a shock to the young woman who received it. For the rest of that day the
many sights of London held little interest for her--so little, indeed,
that her perspiring father began to see visions of his beloved Texas;
and once hopefully suggested an early return home. The coolness with
which this idea was received plainly showed him that he was on the wrong
track; so he sighed and sought solace at the bar.

That night the two from Texas attended His Majesty's Theater, where
Bernard Shaw's latest play was being performed; and the witty Irishman
would have been annoyed to see the scant attention one lovely young
American in the audience gave his lines. The American in question
retired at midnight, with eager thoughts turned toward the morning.

And she was not disappointed. When her maid, a stolid Englishwoman,
appeared at her bedside early Saturday she carried a letter, which
she handed over, with the turned-up nose of one who aids but does not
approve. Quickly the girl tore it open.

DEAR Texas LADY: I am writing this late in the afternoon. The sun is
casting long black shadows on the garden lawn, and the whole world is
so bright and matter-of-fact I have to argue with myself to be convinced
that the events of that tragic night through which I passed really
happened.

The newspapers this morning helped to make it all seem a dream; not a
line--not a word, that I can find. When I think of America, and how
by this time the reporters would be swarming through our house if this
thing had happened over there, I am the more astonished. But then, I
know these English papers. The great Joe Chamberlain died the other
night at ten, and it was noon the next day when the first paper to carry
the story appeared--screaming loudly that it had scored a beat. It had.
Other lands, other methods.