“We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. However, no one had discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out.
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