The correspondence continued by every Indian mail after his receipt of her guarded refusal; he Quixotic, devoted, no matter how she had changed.  He loved the mere scent of her letter paper.  Was she only a governess?  Had she been a charwoman, he would have kissed her cheeks white.  The boyish extravagance of his passion worked upon her, troubling her to her sincerest core.  She would hide nothing from him.  She wrote a full account of her stage career, morbidly exaggerating the vulgarity of her performance and the degradation of her character.  She was blacker than any charwoman, she said with grim humour.  The moment she dropped the letter into the box, a trembling seized on all her limbs.  She spent three days of torture; her fear of losing him seeming to have heightened her love for him.

Then Mrs. Lee Carter handed her a cable.

“Sailing unexpectedly S.S. Colombo to-morrow—­Doherty.”  She nearly fell fainting in dual joy.  He was coming home, and he would cross her letter.  Before it could return they would be safely married.  It should be destroyed unread.

“Is anything wrong?” said her mistress.

“No, quite the contrary.”

“I am glad, because I had rather unpleasant news to tell you.  But you must have seen that when Kenneth goes to Winchester, there will practically be nothing for you to do.”

“How lucky!  For I am going to be married.”

“Oh, my dear, I am so glad,” gushed Mrs. Lee Carter.

Afterwards Eileen marvelled at the obvious finger of Providence unravelling her problems.  She had never relished the idea of finding another place, not easily would she find one so dovetailing into her second life; she might have been tempted to burn her boats.

She prepared now to burn her ships instead.  Her contracts with the Halls were now only monthly; Nelly O’Neill could easily slip out of existence.  She would not say she was going to be married—­that would concentrate attention on herself.  Illness seemed the best excuse.  For the one week after the Colombo’s arrival she could send conscience money.  The Saturday it was due found her still starred; she did not believe his ship would get in till late, and managers would particularly dislike being done out of her Saturday night turn.  Perhaps she ought to have left the previous week, she thought.  It was foolish to rush things so close.  But it was not so easy to give up the habits of years, and activity allayed the fever of waiting.  She had sent an ardent letter to meet the ship at Southampton, saying he was to call at the Lee Carters’ in Oxbridge Terrace on Sunday afternoon, which she had to herself.  Being only a poor governess, she would be unable to meet him at the station or receive him at the house on Saturday night, even if he got in so early.  He must be resigned to her situation, she added jestingly.  On the Saturday afternoon she received a wire full of their own hieroglyphic love-words, grumbling but obeying.  How could he live till Sunday afternoon?  Why hadn’t she resigned her situation?