"Oh, yes," Millar said, with another sip of tea.
"Oh, God! too late!" she cried.
Millar arose and stood behind Olga's chair, leaning over her and speaking in a soft, low voice.
"After he read the letter he buried his face in his pillow and wept," he said.
"He wept?"
"Yes; he wept with joy. I do not like men who weep."
Olga did not heed his flippancy. She looked up at him imploringly.
"I did not want him to get that letter," she said. "I came to ask him to give it back to me unopened. I am too late."
"It is not you who are too late; it was I who was too early," Millar said deprecatingly.
"Oh, is this life really a serious matter?" Olga exclaimed; "when everything can depend upon one's getting here a few moments before or a few minutes after 3 o'clock?"