Miss Allendner entered with a letter, and Poppy, taking it from her, saw that it was addressed in the small, strong writing she had not seen for years, but which she instantly recognised as Luce Abinger's. She laid it down mechanically on the table.
"Mr. Abinger brought it himself," said Miss Allendner, "and would not leave it until he heard that you were here and would receive it at once. He said it was very important."
"Thank you," said Poppy quietly, and sat staring at the letter long after her companion had left the room.
Afterwards, she laid her head on the books again, but wearily now, and the tears of her eyes were dried up and so was the little chant of praise in her heart. She was afraid—afraid of the letter; of the look she had seen in Luce Abinger's eyes of late—the old, hateful look—and of the fight before her. Now that she had done the work and would have the money to fight with, she was afraid. But only for a time. Those who have fought with any of the grim forces of life—sorrow, pain, poverty, despair—and defeated even the least of these in battle, have strength to fight again, and secret springs of courage to drink from in the hour of need. Poppy rose from her table at last with such new courage in her, that she could laugh disdainfully at the sealed letter and all it contained of threats, or commands. She left it sealed and lying there for some other hour's perusal. It should not spoil this her glad day of finished tasks.
She locked the door upon it and her work, and went to her room to change her gown and get ready to spend the rest of the day with Clem Portal. She would probably stay the night, but she took nothing with her, for she had now quite a collection of clothes at Clem's for emergencies.
On the afternoon of the same day she sat dreaming in a Madeira-chair in Clem's drawing-room, while the latter meditated on the piano, trying to compose an air sufficiently mournful to set to the words of a little song of Poppy's called "In Exile." Softly, she sang it over and over to long slurring chords—curiously sweet and strange.
I.
Across the purple heather
The winds of God blow sweet.
But it's O for the smell of London
And the roar of a London street!
II.