His niece said “Indeed!” and, informing him in somewhat hostile tones that she was suffering from a severe headache, retired to her room.

Mr. Mott spent the evening by himself, and retiring to bed at ten-thirty was awakened by a persistent knocking at the front door at half-past one.  Half awakened, he lit a candle, and, stumbling downstairs, drew back the bolt of the door, and stood gaping angrily at the pathetic features of Mr. Hurst.

“Sorry to disturb you,” said the young man, “but would you mind giving this letter to Miss Garland?”

“Sorry to disturb me!” stuttered Mr. Mott.  “What do you mean by it?  Eh?  What do you mean by it?”

“It is important,” said Mr. Hurst.  “I can’t rest.  I’ve eaten nothing all day.”

“Glad to hear it,” snapped the irritated Mr. Mott.

“If you will give her that letter, I shall feel easier,” said Mr. Hurst.

“I’ll give it to her in the morning,” said the other, snatching it from him.  “Now get off.”

Mr. Hurst still murmuring apologies, went, and Mr. Mott, also murmuring, returned to bed.  The night was chilly, and it was some time before he could get to sleep again.  He succeeded at last, only to be awakened an hour later by a knocking more violent than before.  In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he dived into his trousers again and went blundering downstairs in the dark.

“Sorry to—­” began Mr. Hurst.

Mr. Mott made uncouth noises at him.

“I have altered my mind,” said the young man.  “Would you mind letting me have that letter back again?  It was too final.”

“You—­get—­off !” said the other, trembling with cold and passion.

“I must have that letter,” said Mr. Hurst, doggedly.  “All my future happiness may depend upon it.”

Mr. Mott, afraid to trust himself with speech, dashed upstairs, and after a search for the matches found the letter, and, returning to the front door, shut it on the visitor’s thanks.  His niece’s door opened as he passed it, and a gentle voice asked for enlightenment.

“How silly of him!” she said, softly.  “I hope he won’t catch cold.  What did you say?”

“I was coughing,” said Mr. Mott, hastily.

“You’ll get cold if you’re not careful,” said his thoughtful niece.  “That’s the worst of men, they never seem to have any thought.  Did he seem angry, or mournful, or what?  I suppose you couldn’t see his face?”

“I didn’t try,” said Mr. Mott, crisply.  “Good night.”

By the morning his ill-humour had vanished, and he even became slightly facetious over the events of the night.  The mood passed at the same moment that Mr. Hurst passed the window.

“Better have him in and get it over,” he said, irritably.

Miss Garland shuddered.

“Never!” she said, firmly.  “He’d be down on his knees.  It would be too painful.  You don’t know him.”