“Yes, one thing more help me to remember the levers of the second order. It's my physiology class tonight, and I feel, as Tom would express it, like a 'boiled owl.'”
“Let me take the class for you.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she replied. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
It was not till Brian had left that Erica, taking up the article on cremation, was struck by some resemblance in the handwriting. She must have seen Brian's writing before, but only this afternoon did she make that fresh discovery. Crossing the room she took from one of the book shelves a dark blue morocco volume, and compared the writing on the fly leaf with her MS.
“From another admirer of 'Hiawatha.'” There could be no doubt that Brian had written that. Had he cared for her so long? Had he indeed loved her all these years? She was interrupted by the maid bringing in the tea.
“Mr. Bircham's boy is here, miss, and if you please, can cook speak to you a minute?”
Erica put down the Longfellow and rolled up “Cremation.”
“I'm sure she's going to give warning!” she thought to herself. “What a day to choose for it! That's what I call an anti-climax.”
Her forebodings proved all too true. In a minute more in walked the cook, with the sort of conscious dignity of bearing which means “I am no longer in your service.”
“If you please, miss, I wish to leave this day month.”