Justine, in reply to his question, had drawn back a step, slipping her letter into the breast of her jacket.
"That is hardly worth while, since it was addressed to you," she answered with a slight smile as she turned to descend the post-office steps.
Wyant, still carrying his hat, and walking with quick uneven steps, followed her in silence till they had passed beyond earshot of the loiterers on the threshold; then, in the shade of the maple boughs, he pulled up and faced her.
"You've written to say that I may come tomorrow?"
Justine hesitated. "Yes," she said at length.
"Good God! You give royally!" he broke out, pushing his hand with a nervous gesture through the thin dark curls on his forehead.
Justine laughed, with a trace of nervousness in her own tone. "And you talk—well, imperially! Aren't you afraid to bankrupt the language?"
"What do you mean?" he said, staring.
"What do you mean? I have merely said that I would see you tomorrow——"
"Well," he retorted, "that's enough for my happiness!"