I arrived within the bounds of Saint Canon’s parish within the half-hour, thanks to the “pour boire” that I held out, in anticipation of hurry, to my Jehu.
A few minutes afterwards, I called at The Terrace.
The ladies were both out, the servant said.
I called again, later on.
Still “not at home,” I was told; although, I knew they were in. I had watched both Min and Mrs Clyde enter the house, shortly before my second visit. I was evidently intentionally denied!
I went back to my own home. I spent another hour or two, walking up and down my room in the same cheerful way in which I had passed the morning; and then—then, I thought I would write to Mrs Clyde.
Yes, that would be the best course.
I sat down and penned the most vivid sketch of my present grief, asking her to reconsider the former decision she had given against me. I was certain, I said, that it was only through her influence that Min had rejected me; and I earnestly besought her good will. I was now in a better position, I urged, than I had been the previous year, my income being nearly doubled—thanks to Government and what I was able to reap from my literary lucubrations:—what more could she require? Besides, my assets would increase, at the least, by the ten pound bonus which a grateful country annually aggregates to the salary of its victims each year—not to speak of the fortune I might make by my “connection with the press!” In fact, I said everything that I could, to colour my case and get judgment recorded in my favour.
But, my toil was all in vain!
I sent over my letter by a servant, with instructions to leave it at the door; while, I, waited in all the evening expecting an answer, in breathless suspense.