I ran all the way to Hamilton Place, where I got into a taxi. Ten minutes later I was in my study opening the letter:
714, Park Lane,Friday.
Dear Mr Porcharlester,"
I stopped. Did she think it was he who had serenaded her? The letter continued thus:
"I am sorry that you respect my love for Schubert's serenade so little as to make fun of it. I can tell you that I shall never be able to hear the serenade without a strange mixture of laughter and pain. I did not know that a human throat could produce such sounds. I have only one more word to say: Good-bye. I shall not have the pleasure of meeting you at Mrs Locksley Hall's tomorrow. I don't think I'll be able to receive you again this season.
I am, dear Mr Porcharlester,
Yours truly,Linda Fitznightingale."
I felt that to send this letter to Porcharlester would only pain him uselessly. I also felt that my teacher was right, and that I had not the lip for the French horn. So I gave it up.
Linda is now my wife. I sometimes ask her why she will not see Porcharlester, who has given his word he has done her no wrong. She always refuses to tell me.