‘A note?’ he said, bewildered.
‘Yes; saying how I feel. I’ll settle it to-night. There are things I can say better in a letter. I’ll send it by Alfred before ten. . . . Good-bye. I’ve got to run.’
And she was gone, without a pressure of the hand, without another word, swallowed up by the Park as though she had never been.
He stayed there, staring in front of him; then, after a minute or two, started on his way home. He didn’t know what to think. No, but he was hopeful, more hopeful than he had ever been before. And, whatever way it might go, to-night would settle it. Whatever way it might go!
At the thought that it might go the wrong way his body shrank within its clothes as though a giant hand were compressing it. Supposing she should say no! Oh, suppose . . . He was nearly killed by
