The bulky package was a copy of a book of words for a forthcoming concert at which she was to play.
As she went out into Gifford Road the early pilgrims to the City were already converging into the stream that flowed along the High Road towards Upton Rising Station. It was, as she had before noticed, a beautiful morning. Passing the pillar-box, she was struck by the appalling possibilities of a letter being lost in the post. It had to be taken from the pillar-box into a bag, carried to the central post-office, sorted, put into another bag, and finally inserted in the letter-box of just one out of the ten thousand houses of Upton Rising! At a dozen crises in its chequered course it might stray, get lost, or be waylaid. The arrival of it was a miracle! That a few words scribbled on an envelope should guide a slip of paper through all the maze and tangle of civilization, finally selecting one out of a possible million spots for its delivery, was nothing less than a stupendous miracle! ... Strange that it had never occurred to her before. On the pillar-box plate she read: “Letters containing coin etc. should not be posted in this box, but should be registered.” That, of course, was a safeguard against theft. There were always letter thieves about. It was a lucrative business. They opened letters at random hoping to find postal orders inside. No doubt letters were often lost in this way....
But, of course, he had scarcely had time to reply yet. Perhaps he was consulting Razounov. Perhaps he was not in Upton Rising, and his letters had to be forwarded on to him. Or perhaps he had written and delayed to post the letter. Or perhaps the Bank Holiday traffic....
She pinned her faith to the midday delivery....
§ 4
Wednesday passed, and no letter came. And then Thursday. Catherine had never before been so eager about a letter. She took to going out for a stroll about post-time so that if the letter should arrive it would be there waiting for her when she returned. This manœuvre seemed somehow to lessen the tension of waiting.... Friday came and went, and still no reply from Verreker. Sometimes Catherine felt passionately and proudly annoyed, sometimes she would be on the point of writing again to him. Sometimes she thought: “It is my fault: the letter has irritated him; he has disliked that concluding sentence, ‘Will you do this for me?’” And sometimes she felt: I have written him a polite note, and it is his place to reply. If he doesn’t, I shan’t write again.
And then she had intervals of amazing lucidity, when she upbraided herself without stint. You are being as trivial and as paltry over this letter as anybody might be, she accused herself—your behaviour is absolutely absurd. There are a hundred reasons why he may not have replied, and one of them is that he has completely forgotten. After all, you do not occupy such an important place in his mind as to make it impossible for him to forget you....
And then on Saturday morning (she deliberately stayed in bed till eight in order to convince herself that she had ceased to be absurd) the familiar handwriting lay uppermost beside her plate. With carefully restrained eagerness she cut open the envelope with the bread-knife.
DEAR MISS WESTON (she read),
I am sorry I have delayed in replying to your note, but I have been extremely busy and that must be my excuse. With regard to your project, it is almost impossible to discuss it in correspondence, so will you come to tea here on Sunday (4 p.m.)?