“It is for you,” she said. “I have just taken it out of the post office. Good-by! good-by!”
She handed the letter, turned the pony’s head, and drove off.
Harcourt glanced at the superscription, reeled, and nearly fell to the ground.
A railway porter caught and steadied him.
“What’s the matter with you, young man? Have you been drinking? No, your breath don’t smell so.”
The porter, holding his arm, guided his steps into the waiting-room.
Harcourt submitted like an automaton.
The porter let him down on a chair and left him. Harcourt stared at the letter that he held fast clutched in his hand.
It was from Roma!
He had recognized her handwriting at a glance, and was overwhelmed by the sight of it.