Her first thought, when she could think connectedly, was to send her unfinished letter to Nick, with a few hastily scribbled words at the end—not about the pansies. And perhaps to enclose the telegram.
But she did neither. Two days passed before she sent the long diary letter, and when she did send it, nothing more had been written. She waited. She did not know what would happen. She did not even read the newspapers, though she knew there must be paragraphs, not tucked into corners, for this was, in a way, world's news. There had been "considerable interest."
On the third day she was given another telegram. This time the name at the bottom was the only name that could make her heart beat:
"I have seen what has happened. When will you let me come?"
He did not say "Will you let me come?" but "When." She thought if she did not answer soon he would come all the same. It seemed wonderful, unbelievable, that now there was no wrong, no cruelty, no terrible unwisdom in having him near her. But there was none. Even she could see none. So she telegraphed, not the immediate summons he hoped for and she was tempted to send him, but the message of her second thought. "Come; not yet, but on the day I have a home of my own to welcome you in. Till then, let me be alone with my thoughts of you."
The architect thought Mrs. May's impatience to get into her new house, and to have even the garden finished, a charming whim. As she seemed not to care how much money was spent, relays of men, many men, were put on to work night as well as day. Angela chose furniture in San Francisco, all made of beautiful California woods. "We shall have two homes," she thought. It was heavenly to say "we" again.
"You can have Christmas dinner at your own place," said the architect.
"Oh, but I want Christmas Eve there!" Angela exclaimed. "Of all things, I want Christmas Eve!"
"Very well, I promise you Christmas Eve," the architect answered, almost as if she were a child.