He showed her the telegram. "I'll have to leave in an hour," he said,
"if I'm to go."
She paled at that, and sat down rather giddily on a trunk. "You must
go," she said, "of course. And--Roddy, I guess that'll be the easiest
way. I'll get my telegram to-night--pretend to get it--from Portia. And
you can give me the hundred dollars, and then, when you come back, I'll
be gone."
The thing she had been holding in her hands slipped to the floor. He
stooped and picked it up--stared at it with a sort of half awakened
recognition.
"I f--found it," she explained, "among some old things Portia sent over
when she moved. Do you know what it is? It's one of the note-books that
got wet--that first night when we were put off the street-car. And--and,
Roddy, look!"
She opened it to an almost blank page, and with a weak little laugh,
pointed to the thing that was written there:
"'March fifteenth, nineteen twelve!' Your birthday, you see, and the day
we met each other."
And then, down below, the only note she had made during the whole of
that lecture, he read: "Never marry a man with a passion for
principles.
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