it
aside. Then he leaned forward, breathing deeply but quietly, and picked
up a pen and a sheet of paper. For the time had come for his letter to
her, and he was ready.

The letter he wrote was one of those gay, cheerful, inconsequential
letters which, from the very beginning of their occasional
correspondence, had always been to her most welcome and delightful.

Ignoring that maturity in her with which he had lately dared to reckon,
he reverted to the tone which he had taken and maintained with her
before the sweetness and seriousness of their relations had deepened to
an intimacy which had committed him to an avowal.

News of all sorts humorously retailed--an amusing sketch of his recent
journey to Washington and its doubtful results--matters that they both
were interested in, details known only to them, a little harmless
gossip--these things formed the body of his letter. There was never a
hint of sorrow or discouragement--nothing to intimate that life had so
utterly and absolutely changed for him--only a jolly, friendly
badinage--an easy, light-hearted narrative, ending in messages to all
and a frank regret that the pursuit of business and happiness appeared
incompatible at the present moment.

His address, he wrote, was his club; he sent her, he said, under
separate cover, a rather interesting pamphlet--a monograph on the
symbolism displayed by the designs in Samarcand rugs and textiles of
the Ming dynasty. And he ended, closing with a gentle jest concerning
blue-stockings and rebellious locks of ruddy hair.

And signed his name.

* * * * *

Nina and Eileen, in travelling gowns and veils, stood on the porch at
Silverside, waiting for the depot wagon, when Selwyn's letter was handed
to Eileen.

The girl flushed up, then, avoiding Nina's eyes, turned and entered the
house. Once out of sight, she swiftly mounted to her own room and
dropped, breathless, on the bed, tearing the envelope from end to end.
And from end to end, and back again and over again, she read the
letter--at first in expectancy, lips parted, colour brilliant, then with
the smile still curving her cheeks--but less genuine now--almost
mechanical--until the smile stamped on her stiffening lips faded, and
the soft contours relaxed, and she lifted her eyes, staring into space
with a wistful, questioning lift of the pure brows.

What more had she expected? What more had she desired? Nothing, surely,
of that emoti