But storms, given right of way, pass on and over, and tempests sweep hearts cleaner; and after a long while he lifted his bowed head and sat up, squaring his shoulders.

Presently he picked up his pipe again, held it a moment, then laid it aside.  Then he leaned forward, breathing deeply but quietly, and picked up a pen and a sheet of paper.  For the time had come for his letter to her, and he was ready.

The letter he wrote was one of those gay, cheerful, inconsequential letters which, from the very beginning of their occasional correspondence, had always been to her most welcome and delightful.

Ignoring that maturity in her with which he had lately dared to reckon, he reverted to the tone which he had taken and maintained with her before the sweetness and seriousness of their relations had deepened to an intimacy which had committed him to an avowal.

News of all sorts humorously retailed—­an amusing sketch of his recent journey to Washington and its doubtful results—­matters that they both were interested in, details known only to them, a little harmless gossip—­these things formed the body of his letter.  There was never a hint of sorrow or discouragement—­nothing to intimate that life had so utterly and absolutely changed for him—­only a jolly, friendly badinage—­an easy, light-hearted narrative, ending in messages to all and a frank regret that the pursuit of business and happiness appeared incompatible at the present moment.

His address, he wrote, was his club; he sent her, he said, under separate cover, a rather interesting pamphlet—­a monograph on the symbolism displayed by the designs in Samarcand rugs and textiles of the Ming dynasty.  And he ended, closing with a gentle jest concerning blue-stockings and rebellious locks of ruddy hair.

And signed his name.

* * * * *

Nina and Eileen, in travelling gowns and veils, stood on the porch at Silverside, waiting for the depot wagon, when Selwyn’s letter was handed to Eileen.

The girl flushed up, then, avoiding Nina’s eyes, turned and entered the house.  Once out of sight, she swiftly mounted to her own room and dropped, breathless, on the bed, tearing the envelope from end to end.  And from end to end, and back again and over again, she read the letter—­at first in expectancy, lips parted, colour brilliant, then with the smile still curving her cheeks—­but less genuine now—­almost mechanical—­until the smile stamped on her stiffening lips faded, and the soft contours relaxed, and she lifted her eyes, staring into space with a wistful, questioning lift of the pure brows.

What more had she expected?  What more had she desired?  Nothing, surely, of that emotion which she declined to recognise; surely not that sentiment of which she had admitted her ignorance to him.  Again her eyes sought the pages, following the inked writing from end to end.  What was she seeking there that he had left unwritten?  What was she searching for, of which there was not one hint in all these pages?