dear, do you think I don’t know how near you came to loving me?’ I guess you know how he said that.  There are certain tones in his voice that sink straight to the bottom of your heart; I couldn’t keep from crying.  And it seems to me that if you really knew how much he thought of you, and how sick he had been, and how he has wanted you, nothing could keep you from packing up and coming straight to Washington.  I know I should.  I could go anywhere, through Alaska or the Great Sahara, it wouldn’t matter which, for a man, if there is one in this world, who could love me that well.”

Beatriz Weatherbee folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.  The action was mechanical, and she sat twisting it with a kind of silent emphasis, looking out into the thick atmosphere.  A dash of hail struck the window; the plate glass grew opaque.  Then, suddenly, she lifted her arms to the table and dropped her face; her body shook.  It was as though she had come at last to her blank wall; the inevitable she had so persistently evaded was upon her; there was no escape.

Presently some one knocked.  And instantly her intrepid spirit was up, on guard.  She sat erect and pressed her handkerchief swiftly to her eyes.  Then Marcia Feversham opened the door and, finding the button, flashed on the lights.

“Why, Beatriz,” she exclaimed.  “Are you here in the dark?  You must have fallen asleep in your chair.”

“And dreaming.”  She rose, shading her eyes from the sudden glare.  “But it was a wretched dream, Marcia; I am glad you wakened me.  Where is Elizabeth?”

“Making Frederic’s cocktail.  He needed a bracer to go through a business meeting with Stuart Foster; but she will be here directly.  I thought, since we are to share your rooms, we had better dress early to be out of the way.  And I sent Celeste in to the Hallidays; Elizabeth can do everything for me.”

“Much better than Celeste,” she agreed.  “And while you are busy, I shall go for a bracing little walk.”

“A walk?” echoed Marcia in astonishment.  “Why, it’s storming.  Hear that!”

Another burst of hail struck the window.  Mrs. Weatherbee turned, listening, and so avoiding Marcia’s penetrating eyes, dropped her hand from her own.  “I have my raincoat and cap,” she said, “and a smart brush with the wind will clear my head of cobwebs.”

With this she hurriedly smoothed the letter and laid it between the pages of a book; lifting the violets from the table, she carried them out of the steam-heated apartment to the coolness of the sleeping-porch.  Mrs. Feversham followed to the inner room and stood watching her through the open door.

“Violets!” she exclaimed.  “At Christmas!  From wherever did they come?”

“From Hollywood Gardens,” she responded almost eagerly.  “Isn’t it marvelous how they make the out-of-season flowers bloom?  But this flurry of hail is the end of the storm, Marcia; the clouds are breaking, and it is light enough to see the path above the pergola.  I shall have time to go as far as the observatory.”