d to herself, when present things seemed a
failure:

"Ah, I was fond of him," as if with him the leading
flower of her life had died.

Now she heard from him again. The chief effect was pain. The
pleasure, the spontaneous joy was not there any longer. But her
will rejoiced. Her will had fixed itself to him. And the
old excitement of her dreams stirred and woke up. He was come,
the man with the wondrous lips that could send the kiss wavering
to the very end of all space. Was he come back to her? She did
not believe.

My dear Ursula, I am back in England again for a few
months before going out again, this time to India. I wonder if
you still keep the memory of our times together. I have still
got the little photograph of you. You must be changed since
then, for it is about six years ago. I am fully six years
older,--I have lived through another life since I knew you
at Cossethay. I wonder if you would care to see me. I shall come
up to Derby next week, and I would call in Nottingham, and we
might have tea together. Will you let me know? I shall look for
your answer.

Anton Skrebensky

Ursula had taken this letter from the rack in the hall at
college, and torn it open as she crossed to the Women's room.
The world seemed to dissolve away from around her, she stood
alone in clear air.

Where could she go, to be alone? She fled away, upstairs, and
through the private way to the reference library. Seizing a
book, she sat down and pondered the letter. Her heart beat, her
limbs trembled. As in a dream, she heard one gong sound in the
college, then, strangely, another. The first lecture had gone
by.

Hurriedly she took one of her note-books and began to
write.

"Dear Anton, Yes, I still have the ring. I should be very
glad to see you again. You can come here to college for me, or I
will meet you somewhere in the town. Will you let me know? Your
sincere friend----"

Trembling, she asked the librarian, who was her friend, if he
would give her an envelope. She sealed and addressed her letter,
and went out, bare-headed, to post it. When it was dropped into
the pillar-box, the world became a very still, pale place,
without confines. She wandered back to college, to her pale
dream, like a first wan light of dawn.

Skrebensky came one afternoon the following week. Day after
day, she had hurried swiftly to the letter-rack on her arrival
at college in the morning, and during the intervals between
lectures. Several tim