I was a trustee for his wife and executor at his death. He died of a lingering illness, during which his hopes of living were alternately raised, and ...epressed. Two years before he died, he gave me a huge parcel carefully tied up and sealed. ‘Take care of but don’t open this,’ he said; “if I get better, return it to me if I die, let no mortal eye but yours see it, and burn it.”His widow died a year after him. I had well nigh forgotten this packet, which I had had full three years, when, looking. ‘Because I wanted to have dinner with a pretty girl.’ ‘Pretty girl? You’re joking! I’m not pretty, I’m probably the plainest woman you’ve ever seen.’ Incredibly, she was angry. ‘Says who?’ I said. ‘My mirror, for one,’ she retorted. ‘Change your mirror,’ I said. ‘Change my – you’re joking, and I don’t like it! I’m not pretty. I never have been, I never will be.’ Her colour was up again, but the listlessness had gone and there was animation in her. I stopped and turned her to face me. ‘I am not. More

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