So he had written, and very promptly he received an answer. He sat on the edge of the bed in his furnished room and read it again, while his conscience flew wildly about inside him.
Dear Will:
You need not have doubted that I should wait for you. You told me you would come back, and I believed you, of course. To me, loyalty is the most beautiful thing in the world.
I have been able to save a little money in the past year, by giving music lessons, and I have rented a dear little cottage here and filled it with what was left of mother’s furniture. I am really doing very well, so that even if the florist shop isn’t enormously profitable at the start, we shall be able to manage nicely.
So far the letter was delightful and comforting; but it went on:
But, Will, you know how thirsty a small town is for gossip, and it has really been more unpleasant than I care to tell you. We had better be married quietly as soon as you come. I’ll arrange everything, if you will let me know when to expect you.
This terrified him. Of course, he loved Mildred, and admired her.
“But I’m not worthy of her!” he cried. “I never can be!” And he might truthfully have added: “I never want to be!”
Impossible to say what his conscience would have driven him to, if the landlady had not come up just then and spoken very disagreeably about his rent; so he saw that it was right for him to be a florist. He sent a telegram to announce his arrival three days later.