The contradiction alluded to was that in spite of the decisive mood which two months earlier in the year had caused her to write a peremptory and final letter to Edward, she was now hoping for some answer other than the only possible one a man who, as she held, did not love her wildly, could send to such a communication.  For a lover who did love wildly, she had left one little loophole in her otherwise straightforward epistle.  Why she expected the letter on some morning of this particular week was, that hearing of his return to Carriford, she fondly assumed that he meant to ask for an interview before he left.  Hence it was, too, that for the last few days, she had not been able to keep in bed later than the time of the postman’s arrival.

The clock pointed to half-past seven.  She saw the postman emerge from beneath the bare boughs of the park trees, come through the wicket, dive through the shrubbery, reappear on the lawn, stalk across it without reference to paths—­as country postmen do—­and come to the porch.  She heard him fling the bag down on the seat, and turn away towards the village, without hindering himself for a single pace.

Then the butler opened the door, took up the bag, brought it in, and carried it up the staircase to place it on the slab by Miss Aldclyffe’s dressing-room door.  The whole proceeding had been depicted by sounds.

She had a presentiment that her letter was in the bag at last.  She thought then in diminishing pulsations of confidence, ’He asks to see me!  Perhaps he asks to see me:  I hope he asks to see me.’

A quarter to eight:  Miss Aldclyffe’s bell—­rather earlier than usual.  ‘She must have heard the post-bag brought,’ said the maiden, as, tired of the chilly prospect outside, she turned to the fire, and drew imaginative pictures of her future therein.

A tap came to the door, and the lady’s-maid entered.

‘Miss Aldclyffe is awake,’ she said; ’and she asked if you were moving yet, miss.’

‘I’ll run up to her,’ said Cytherea, and flitted off with the utterance of the words.  ‘Very fortunate this,’ she thought; ’I shall see what is in the bag this morning all the sooner.’

She took it up from the side table, went into Miss Aldclyffe’s bedroom, pulled up the blinds, and looked round upon the lady in bed, calculating the minutes that must elapse before she looked at her letters.

‘Well, darling, how are you?  I am glad you have come in to see me,’ said Miss Aldclyffe.  ’You can unlock the bag this morning, child, if you like,’ she continued, yawning factitiously.

‘Strange!’ Cytherea thought; ’it seems as if she knew there was likely to be a letter for me.’

From her bed Miss Aldclyffe watched the girl’s face as she tremblingly opened the post-bag and found there an envelope addressed to her in Edward’s handwriting; one he had written the day before, after the decision he had come to on an impartial, and on that account torturing, survey of his own, his father’s, his cousin Adelaide’s, and what he believed to be Cytherea’s, position.