"No doubt," Harry Luttrell returned. "But I am no longer sure that I am going to post it."
The letter to his friend at the War Office contained an earnest prayer that a peremptory telegram should be sent to him at Rackham Park, at an early hour on the next morning, commanding his return to London.
He looked up at Joan.
"You despise racing, don't you?"
"I am going to Gatwick to-morrow."
"You are!" he cried eagerly.
"Of course."
He stood poising the letter in the palm of his open hand. The thought of Stella Croyle bade him post it. The presence of Joan Whitworth, and he was so conscious of her, paralysed his arm. Some vague sense of the tumult within him passed out from him to her. An intuition seized upon her that that letter was in some way vital to her, in some way a menace to her. Any moment he might post it! Once posted he might let it go. She drew a little sharp breath. He was standing there, so still, so quiet and slow in his decision. It became necessary to her that words should be spoken. She spoke the first which rose to her lips.
"You are going to stay for the Willoughbys' ball, aren't you?"
Harry Luttrell smiled.