"No; you expected—that is, we expected to——I say, Winfield, I'm going to send this by hand."
"Wait until to-morrow."
"No; to-morrow is an eternity. I must send it now. Great God! you don't know what this means to me. Get your lunch, Winfield; I'll be back presently."
He left the room as he spoke, while Winfield went into the dining-room.
"Poor beggar," said the young man as he examined the menu, "he's got it bad, and no wonder; for it was a knock-down blow. Well, it must be kept out of the papers, anyhow."
When he had nearly finished his lunch Leicester joined him.
"I've sent it off," he said, "and have told the man to wait for an answer."
"Better if you'd waited until to-morrow," said Winfield.
"I couldn't, man. Most likely she'll go away somewhere to-night—that is—unless—you know. If I'd waited until to-morrow, she'd never have got my letter, she'd be on the way to the Continent, or—heaven knows where. No, I've done right."
"Perhaps you have. Anyhow, sit down and get some lunch. A man must eat, you know."