his from?"

Suddenly something gripped his heart; he felt the blood rush to his
cheeks, and a cold tremor ran through all his limbs. He recognised the
handwriting of Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace, and there was a penny stamp on
the envelope. She was in England. The letter had been posted in London.

He turned away and walked towards a table that stood near the window of
the hall. A thousand recollections surged across his memory
tumultuously; the paper was scented (how characteristic that was of her,
and in what bad taste!); he saw at once her smile and the look of her
eyes. He had a mad desire passionately to kiss the letter; a load of
weariness fell from his heart; he felt insanely happy, as though angry
storm-clouds had been torn asunder, and the sun in its golden majesty
shone calmly upon the earth.... Then, with sudden impulse, he tore the
unopened letter into a dozen pieces and threw them away. He straightened
himself, and walked into the smoking-room.

James looked round and saw nobody he knew, quietly took a magazine from
the table, and sat down; but the blood-vessels in his brain throbbed so
violently that he thought something horrible would happen to him. He
heard the regular, quick beating, like the implacable hammering of
gnomes upon some hidden, distant anvil.

"She's in London," he repeated.

When had the letter been posted? At least, he might have looked at the
mark on the envelope. Was it a year ago? Was it lately? The letter did
not look as though it had been lying about the club for many months. Had
it not still the odour of those dreadful Parma violets? She must have
seen in the paper his return from Africa, wounded and ill. And what did
she say? Did she merely write a few cold words of congratulation
or--more?

It was terrible that after three years the mere sight of her handwriting
should have power to throw him into this state of eager, passionate
anguish. He was seized with the old panic, the terrified perception of
his surrender, of his utter weakness, which made flight the only
possible resistance. That was why he had destroyed the letter unread.
When Mrs. Wallace was many thousand miles away there had been no danger
in confessing that he loved her; but now it was different. What did she
say in the letter? Had she in some feminine, mysterious fashion
discovered his secret? Did she ask him to go and see her? James
remembered one of their conversations.

"Oh, I love going to London!" she had crie