Their eyes met, almost for the first time, and a sudden constraint fell upon the girl.

“But I don’t see,” she said, with some difficulty—­“if you telegraphed him that—­on Monday—­I don’t understand—­”

“The telegram went astray.  I went to the office here last night and had them find out.  It should have reached Weymouth the first thing yesterday morning.  It didn’t arrive till about three in the afternoon.  But even then....  You see, he could hardly have expected a reply to his letter till Wednesday.  That’s to-day—­”

These two sat looking at each other:  and Cally’s tongue was no longer free as a hurt child’s.  She seemed not to find it possible to speak at all now.  The young man from the other world was going on, with his strange composure.

“So you see how much was pure blind chance, that couldn’t be guarded against.  If he had only waited....  If he had only trusted you—­two hours longer....”

Surely he had more to say, much more; yet he ended abruptly, speech being evidently not desired of him.  The girl had suddenly dropped her face into her hands.

Cally did not want to look at this man any more; could not bear it indeed.  His eyes, which had always seemed gifted to convey hidden meanings, had well outstripped the words of his mouth, triumphing strangely over all that he knew about her.  Quite clearly they had said to her just then:  “I would have trusted you, you know....”  And somehow that seemed sad to her, she did not know why.  Why, indeed, should Jack Dalhousie have trusted her?...

Something moved in Cally in this moment which might have been the still small voice, and her weakness grew apace.  She turned precipitately, put an arm on the back of the gold divan where she sat, and buried her face in it.  Her struggle now was against tears; and it was to be a losing struggle.  She did not cry easily.  It always seemed rather like tearing loose something within her, something important that was meant to stay where it had been fixed.  There was pain with these tears....

The man from the Dabney House said nothing.  His was a more than woman’s intuition.  There was a long silence in the drawing-room....

But after a time, when there were signs that the tension was relaxing and the sudden storm passing, he spoke in his simple voice: 

“You see your message would have been all that you meant, but for the terrible coincidence.  You mustn’t take it—­so much upon yourself.  That wouldn’t be right.  Think of that poor girl out there, who is reproaching herself so to-day.  And then, besides, you must know I realize that I should have seen you last week....  You had every right to expect that, as I was—­in a measure—­Dal’s representative....”

Cally hardly heard him.

Her back toward him, she had produced from some recess a small handkerchief, and was silently removing the traces of her tears.  She had dimly supposed that there would be a long discussion; all at once it was clear that there was nothing to discuss.  And she thought of Hugo, and a little of her mother, waiting upstairs....