"Mr. Barker has been here a good deal lately, and the other day he told me a story I did not like. But I forgave him, for he seemed so penitent. Please burn my letters.
"It is very cold and disagreeable, and I really half wish I were in Europe. Europe is much pleasanter. I have not read a word of Spencer since you left, but I have thought a great deal about what you said the last time we did any work together.
"Let me know positively when you are coming back, and let it be as soon as possible, for I must see you. I am going to see Salvini, in Othello, to-night, with Miss Skeat. He sent me a box, in memory of a little dinner years ago, and I expect him to call. He did call, but I could not see him.
"I cannot write any more, for it is dinner-time. Thanks, dear, for your loving letter. It was sweet of you to post it the same day, for it caught the steamer.
—In tearing haste, yours, M.
"P.S.—Answer all my questions, please."
There was an indistinctness about the last word; it might have been "your," or "yours." The "tearing haste" resolved itself into ringing the bell to know what time it was, for Margaret had banished the hideous hotel clock from the room. On finding it was yet early, she sat down in a deep chair, and warmed her toes at the small wood fire, which was just enough to be enjoyable and not enough to be hot. It was now the beginning of October, for Claudius's letter, begun on the 15th of September, had not been posted until the 21st, and had been a long time on the way. She wondered when he would get the letter she had just written. It was not much of a letter, but she remembered the last paragraph, and thought it was quite affectionate enough. As for Claudius, when he received it he was as much delighted as though it had been six times as long and a hundred times more expansive. "Thanks, dear, for your loving letter,"—that phrase alone acknowledged everything, accepted everything, and sanctioned everything.
In the evening, as she had said in writing to the Doctor, she went with Miss Skeat and sat in the front box of the theatre, which the great actor had placed at her disposal. The play was Othello. Mr. Barker had ascertained that she was going, and had accordingly procured himself a seat in the front of the orchestra. He endeavoured to catch a look from Margaret all through the first part of the performance, but she was too entirely absorbed in the tragedy to notice him. At length, in the interval before the last act, Mr. Barker took courage, and, leaving his chair, threaded his way out of the lines of seats to the entrance. Then he presented himself at the door of the Countess's box.
"May I come in for a little while?" he inquired with an affectation of doubt and delicacy that was unnatural to him.
"Certainly," said Margaret indifferently, but smiling a little withal.