"I wish I had written three weeks ago," she reflected. "It will require nine or ten weeks for this letter to reach England, and as many coming back, and, allowing for the necessary delay at both ends and the time she takes to reply, it will be all of five months and, maybe, six, before I can hope for an answer. That will be the first of November, at least—and, like enough, you will be gone before, then, Sir Edward," she said, looking out at the man standing in the group on the lawn below her.
She folded the letter carefully, and affixed the seals, then laid it aside, to be sent to Annapolis and included in his Excellency's mail for forwarding. In that way, she would save postage, and as the missive was several ounces in weight, at five shillings the ounce, it made purely friendly communications rather expensive.
It was nearly supper-time when she appeared on the lawn, looking exceedingly sweet in a flowered pink silk, to find a new arrival—Mr. Richard Maynadier. He had ridden across from his place, Rose Hill, which adjoined Hedgely Hall on the North.
"Ah, Miss Stirling!" he said, with a low bow. "The evening star shines pale beside you."
"And the morning star not at all!" she laughed. "Thanks, monsieur, my warmest thanks.—But I wonder that you are not afraid to pay me compliments."
"No," he said. "Compliments are safe—they lead to nothing."
"Because they are mainly false?" she asked.
"Not exactly—because they do not commit one, I should say—and every one takes them at their value; there is no danger of being misunderstood."
"You are dreadfully afraid of being misunderstood!" she mocked.