mpanion injured. Forgive abruptness. Wished get ahead of
newspapers."

For a moment she felt absolutely unconcerned, as if reading of the death
of some stranger aeronaut, of Japan or South America. Then:

"I hope you've not got bad news, Mrs. May?" a concerned voice was saying.
She was vaguely conscious that the hotel clerk who had given her the
telegram was hovering distressfully before her. She had been standing up
when she began to read the message. Now she was sitting down. But her
voice sounded quite calm and natural in her own ears as she answered, "No,
thank you very much. A surprise--that is all. A great surprise."

"You are all right?"

"Oh, quite--quite!"

"Nothing I can do for you?"

"Nothing, thanks. I will go up to my room."

* * * * *

Her first thought, when she could think connectedly, was to send her
unfinished letter to Nick, with a few hastily scribbled words at the
end--not about the pansies. And perhaps to enclose the telegram.

But she did neither. Two days passed before she sent the long diary
letter, and when she did send it, nothing more had been written. She
waited. She did not know what would happen. She did not even read the
newspapers, though she knew there must be paragraphs, not tucked into
corners, for this was, in a way, world's news. There had been
"considerable interest."

On the third day she was given another telegram. This time the name at the
bottom was the only name that could make her heart beat:

"I have seen what has happened. When will you let me come?"

He did not say "Will you let me come?" but "When." She thought if she did
not answer soon he would come all the same. It seemed wonderful,
unbelievable, that now there was no wrong, no cruelty, no terrible
unwisdom in having him near her. But there was none. Even she could see
none. So she telegraphed, not the immediate summons he hoped for and she
was tempted to send him, but the message of her second thought. "Come; not
yet, but on the day I have a home of my own to welcome you in. Till then,
let me be alone with my thoughts of you."

* * * * *

The architect thought Mrs. May's impatience to get into her new house, and
to have even the garden finished, a charming whim. As she seemed not to
care how much money was spent, relays of men, many men, were put on to
work night as well as day. Angela chose furniture in San Francisco, all
made of bea