When the morning light came grey through her window she was still poring above a blank sheet of notepaper.
This eventually carried but one sentence, addressed to the friend who had stood by her in trouble; and later in the day she sent it by cable to the other side of the world. The message ran: "Please cancel engagement.—Evelyn." His answering cable was brought to her at the dinner-table. Two words only—"Delighted.—Lester."
Out of a mist of floating uncertainty she saw her host bend towards her.
"All well, I trust?" he said kindly.
And she made a desperate effort to control her weakness and reply naturally.
"Oh, quite, quite," she said. "It is exactly what I expected." Nevertheless, she was trembling from head to foot, as if she had been dealt a stunning blow.
Had she altogether expected so prompt and obliging a reply?
Some weeks later, on an afternoon of bleak, early spring, Evelyn wandered alone on the shore where she had bidden Jim Willowby farewell. It was raining, and the sea was grey and desolate. The tide was coming in with a fierce roaring that seemed to fill the whole world.
She had a letter from Jim in her hand—his answer to her appeal for freedom; and she had sought the solitude of the shore in which to read it.