Their letters had insensibly altered in character from the time when they had first started their correspondence. She felt she could not greet him now as a mere acquaintance. He was a good deal more to her than that. And as she mused upon the probability of an early meeting, the flush deepened in her cheeks, and the light came to her eyes.
About four days afterwards, Monica received a wire.
"Can you put me up? Landed in London last night.—RANDOLPH."
And Sidney felt as if she were walking on air after it came.
It was a most exquisite evening in August when he arrived. The dogcart had been sent to the station for him, and Monica and Sidney greeted him from their seat on the lawn. He strode towards them, looking thin and sunburnt; but his eyes were on Sidney's face and no other.
"How good to see you here," he said, as he took her hand in his. "I hardly dared to hope it."
Monica smiled at his outspokenness.
"She is where she always is," she said,—"where her help is needed. Since I have become such a crock, she has supplied all my deficiencies."
And then Randolph turned to her.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he murmured.