“It might have been so; but, Ronald, you must not talk so to me. I am so glad I have seen you—glad to know you were not fickle in love and fancy, as I thought; but now we must part, and we must not meet again.”
“I know; but before you leave me, Hermione, tell me how it happened?”
“I cannot; how did you send that letter to me, Ronald?”
“By my groom. He had orders to deliver it into your own hands, but you were away. He waited some hours, and, as you did not return, he gave it to your maid. I asked him every particular.”
“To my maid! She never gave me any letter from you, Ronald. When did you send it?”
“It was exactly one week after the ball,” he replied.
“I remember,” said Lady Hermione. “We had all been over to Thringston, and it was late when we returned. My maid told me there was an envelope on the toilet-table that Sir Ronald’s groom had brought.”
“That was it,” he said, eagerly.
“No,” she said; “there is some mistake. I opened it, and there was nothing inside but a white rose, carefully folded. I laughed at what seemed to me a romantic idea.”
“Was the envelope addressed to you?” he asked, quickly.