Romer pushed open a door. “Sit down in here,” he said.
“Where is Arthur?” asked Mr. Flint. “How is he getting on?”
Romer explained Arthur’s situation.
“Worse and worse,” cried Mr. Flint.
“But how was it that she refused to see you?” Hetzel questioned, addressing Mrs. Hart.
“She sent me this,” Mrs. Hart replied, holding out a sheet of paper.
Hetzel took it and read:—
“My dear one:—It will seem most ungracious and ungrateful of me to send word that I can not see you just now, and yet that is what I am compelled to do. My only excuse is that I am writing something which demands the utmost concentration and self-possession that I can command; and if I should set eyes upon the face I love so well, I should lose all control of myself. It is very hard to be obliged to say this to you; but what I am writing is of great importance—to me, at least—and the sight of you would agitate me so much that I could not finish it. Oh, my dear, kind friend, will you forgive me? If you could come to see me to-morrow, it would be a great comfort. Then my writing will be done with. I love you with all my heart, and thank you for all your goodness to me.
“Ruth.”
“Don’t blame her too severely, Mrs. Hart,” said Hetzel. “She is probably half-distracted, and scarcely knows what she is doing.”