She flew up to her bedroom, and tore open the envelope. He was in London; ‘Great College Street, S. W.’ A short letter, soon read.
DEAREST NANCY,—I am ashamed to write, yet write I must. All your letters reached me; there was no reason for my silence but the unwillingness to keep sending bad news. I have still nothing good to tell you, but here I am in London again, and you must know of it.
When I posted my last letter to you from New York, I meant to come back as soon as I could get money enough to pay my passage. Since then I have gone through a miserable time, idle for the most part, ill for a few weeks, and occasionally trying to write something that editors would pay for. But after all I had to borrow. It has brought me home (steerage, if you know what that means), and now I must earn more.
If we were to meet, I might be able to say something else. I can’t write it. Let me hear from you, if you think me worth a letter.—Yours ever, dear girl,
L.
For a quarter of an hour she stood with this sheet open, as though still reading. Her face was void of emotion; she had a vacant look, cheerless, but with no more decided significance.
Then she remembered that Samuel Barmby was waiting for her downstairs. He might have something to say which really concerned her. Better see him at once and get rid of him. With slow step she descended to the dining-room. The letter, folded and rolled, she carried in her hand.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Barmby.’
‘Don’t mention it. Will you sit down?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke abstractedly, and took a seat not far from him. ‘I was just going out, but—there’s no hurry.’