Upstairs in her own room Jean was writing a letter.  It was a very pretty room, very fresh and frilly with white dimity and with much pink and pale lavender.  The night-light which shone through the rose taffeta petticoats of a porcelain lady was supplemented at the moment by a bed-side lamp which flung a ring of gold beyond Jean’s blotter to the edge of the lace spread.  For Jean was writing in bed.  All day her mind had been revolving around this letter, but she had had no time to write.  She had spent the afternoon in the Toy Shop with Emily, and in the evening there had been a Red Cross sale.  She had gone to the sale with Ralph Witherspoon and his mother.  She had not been able to get out of going.  All the time she had talked to Ralph she had thought of Derry.  She had rather hoped that he might be there, but he wasn’t.

The letter required much thought.  She tore up, extravagantly, several sheets of note-paper with tiny embossed thistles at the top.  Doctor McKenzie was intensely Scotch, and he was entitled to a crest, but he was also intensely American, and would have none of it.  He had designed Jean’s note-paper, and it was lovely.  But it was also expensive, and it was a shame to waste so much of it on Derry Drake.

The note when it was finished seemed very simple.  Just one page in Jean’s firm, clear script: 

“Dear Mr. Drake:—­

“Could you spare me one little minute tomorrow?  I shall be at home at four.  It is very important—­to me at least.  Perhaps when you hear what I have to say, it will seem important to you.  I hope it may.

“Very sincerely yours,

“Jean MCKENZIE.”

She read it over several times.  It seemed very stiff and inadequate.  She sealed it and stamped it, then in a panic tore it open for a re-reading.  She was oppressed by doubts.  Did nice girls ask men to come and see them?  Didn’t they wait and weary [Transcriber’s note:  worry?] like Mariana of the Moated Grange—?  “He cometh not, she said?”

New times!  New manners!  She had branded a man as a coward.  She had condemned him unheard.  She had slighted him, she had listened while others slandered—­why should she care what other women had done?  Would do?  Her way was clear.  She owed an apology to Derry Drake, and she would make it.

So with a new envelope, a new stamp, the note was again sealed.

It had to be posted that night.  She felt that under no circumstance could she stand the suspense of another day.

She had heard her father go out.  Hilda was coming up, the maids were asleep.  She waited until Hilda’s door was shut, then she slipped out of bed, tucked her toes into a pair of sandals, threw a furry motor coat around her, and sped silently down the stairs.  She shrank back as she opened the front door.  The sleet rattled on the steps, the pavements were covered with white.

The mail-box was in front of the house.  She made a rush for it, dropped in the precious letter, and gained once more the haven of the warm hall.