V

           Attheporter’sdeskabrief“Pasdelettres”felldestructivelyonthefabricofthesehopes.Mrs.Leathhadnotwritten—shehadnottakenthetroubletoexplainhertelegram.Darrowturnedawaywithasharppangofhumiliation.Herfrugalsilencemockedhisprodigalityofhopesandfears.Hehadputhisquestiontotheporteroncebefore,onreturningtothehotelafterluncheon;andnow,comingbackagaininthelateafternoon,hewasmetbythesamedenial.Thesecondpostwasin,andhadbroughthimnothing.

           AglanceathiswatchshowedthathehadbarelytimetodressbeforetakingMissVinerouttodine;butasheturnedtotheliftanewthoughtstruckhim,andhurryingbackintothehallhedashedoffanothertelegramtohisservant:“HaveyouforwardedanyletterwithFrenchpostmarktoday?TelegraphanswerTerminus.”

           Somekindofreplywouldbecertaintoreachhimonhisreturnfromthetheatre,andhewouldthenknowdefinitelywhetherMrs.Leathmeanttowriteornot.Hehasteneduptohisroomanddressedwithalighterheart.

           MissViner’svagranttrunkhadfinallyfounditswaytoitsowner;and,cladinsuchmodestsplendourasitfurnished,sheshoneatDarrowacrosstheirrestauranttable.Inthereactionofhiswoundedvanityhefoundherprettierandmoreinterestingthanbefore.Herdress,slopingawayfromthethroat,showedthegracefulsetofherheadonitsslenderneck,andthewidebrimofherhatarchedaboveherhairlikeaduskyhalo.