‘Never mind how,’ I answered. ‘Perhaps he was watching outside your house, and followed you. The important thing is that he has come. It proves,’ I went on, inventing rapidly, ‘that he has changed his mind and recognises his mistake. Had you not better go back home as quickly as you can? It would have been rather awkward for you to see him here, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, her eyes softening and gleaming with joy. ‘I will go. Oh, Carlotta! how can I thank you? You are my best friend.’
‘I have done nothing,’ I protested. But I had.
‘You are a dear!’ she exclaimed, coming impulsively to the bed.
I sat up. She kissed me fervently. I rang the bell.
‘Has Mr. Ispenlove gone?’ I asked Emmeline.
‘Yes,’ said Emmeline.
In another minute his wife, too, had departed, timorously optimistic, already denying in her heart that it could never be the same between them again. She assuredly would not find Frank at home. But that was nothing. I had escaped! I had escaped!
‘Will you mind getting dressed at once?’ I said to Emmeline. ‘I should like you to go out with a letter and a manuscript as soon as possible.’
I got a notebook and began to write to Frank. I told him all that had happened, in full detail, writing hurriedly, in gusts, and abandoning that regard for literary form which the professional author is apt to preserve even in his least formal correspondence.