"The midnight post?" asked Conway, "not a love letter already!"
"It's to mother," answered Charlie simply.
"I'll show you the way," said Conway politely. "I have my latch-key and it's a lovely night."
It was not far to the post office, and the two young men walked there and back again in silence. Conway, always a silent boy, could think of nothing to say. He felt towards this stranger who, twenty-four hours ago, had been nothing but a name to him, as he might feel towards a burglar who had just stolen his greatest treasure, and who yet had to be treated with more than mere politeness because he now belonged to the family—a combination of feelings which did not tend towards speech.
But Charlie was too engrossed in his happiness to heed either silence or conversation. His mind was busily planning out trains and times for the next day's journey home. What would be the last possible minute that he could give himself at Old Keston?
They reached the house and Conway opened the door with his key and held out his hand.
"Good-night," he said.
Charlie's handshake was a hearty one.
"Good-night!" he said. "Good-night! How long do you reckon it takes to walk to the station?"
Conway smiled to himself as he put up the bolts.