And she had waited—­and she had seen!  She stirred a little, dropped the note into the flames, and turned to the next, the quiet, mocking mouth suddenly tortured and rebellious.

“No, you must be mad,” it ran, the trim writing strangely shaken.  “How often have you seen me—­five times?  Do you know how old I am.  How hard and tired and useless?  No—­no a thousand times.  In a little while we will wake up and find that we were dreaming.”

That had brought him to her swifter than Fate, triumphant mischief in every line of his exultant face.  “Just let those damned old cups slip from your palsied fingers, will you?  I’m goin’ to take your honourable age for a little country air—­it may keep you out of the grave for a few days longer.  Never can tell!  No use your scowlin’ like that—­the car’s outside, and the big chief says to be off with you.  Says you have no more colour than a banshee, and not half the life—­can’t grasp the fact that it’s just chronic antiquity.  Fasten the collar about your throat—­no, higher!  Darlin’, darlin’, think of havin’ a whole rippin’ day to ourselves.  You’re glad, too, aren’t you, my little stubborn saint?”

Oh, that joyous and heart-breaking voice, running on and on—­it made all the other voices that she had ever heard seem colourless and unreal—­

“Darlin’ idiot, what do I care how old you are?  Thirty, hey?  Almost old enough to be an ancestor!  Look at me—­no, look at me!  Dare you to say that you aren’t mad about me!”

Mad about him—­mad, mad!  She lifted her hands to her ears, but she could no more shut out the exultant voice now than she could on that windy afternoon.

“Other fellow got tired of you, did he?  Good luck for us, what?  You’re a fearfully tiresome person, darlin’.  It’s goin’ to take me nine-tenths of eternity to tell you how tiresome you are.  Give a chap a chance, won’t you?  The tiresomest thing about you is the way you leash up that dimple of yours.  No, by George, there it is!  Janie, look at me——­”

She touched the place where the leashed dimple had hidden with a delicate and wondering finger—­of all Jerry’s gifts to her the most miraculous had been that small fugitive.  Exiled now, forever and forever.

“Are you comin’ down to White Orchards next week-end?  I’m off for France on the twelfth and you’ve simply got to meet my people.  You’ll be insane about ’em—­Rosemary’s the most beguilin’ flibbertigibbet, and I can’t wait to see you bein’ a kind of an elderly grandmother to her.  What a bewitchin’ little grandmother you’re goin’ to be one of these days——­”

Oh, Jerry!  Oh, Jerry, Jerry!  She twisted in her chair, her face suddenly a small mask of incredulous terror.  No, no, it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true—­never—­never—­never!  And then, for the first time, she heard it.  Far off but clear, a fine and vibrant humming, the distant music of wings!  The faint, steady pulsing was drawing nearer and nearer—­nearer still—­it must be flying quite high.  The hateful letters scattered about her as she sprang to the open window—­no, it was too high to see, and too dark, though the sky was powdered with stars—­but she could hear it clearly, hovering and throbbing like some gigantic bird.  It must be almost directly over her head, if she could only see it.