"Perhaps this does affect you," she said, quite soberly. And there in the lobby of the little Barton post-office, for the first time, I indulged the hope that there was something more than friendliness and kindness in her eyes. Her usual composure was gone—for a moment only—and she fingered the envelope nervously in her slim, expressive hands. A young woman clerk thrust her head through the delivery window and manifested a profound interest in our colloquy.
"Suppose," said Alice musingly, "I were to tell you that if I mail this letter the effect will be to detain me in America for some time; if I don't send it, I shall have to write another that will mean that I shall go very soon. If I stay on at Barton instead of going home to take up my little part again for England in the war, it will be an act of selfishness—just some more of my foolishness, more of the make-believe life that Constance and I have been living here."
"I want you to stay," I said earnestly, taking the letter. "Let me be your fate in this—in everything that affects your life forever."
She walked quickly to the door, and I dropped the letter into the chute and hurried after her.
"You didn't turn round," I said as we started down the street. "For all you know, I've got the letter in my pocket."
"Oh, I'm not a bit frightened! It would be just as interesting one way as another."
"But I want you to stay forever," I declared as we waited on the curb for a truck to pass.
"The remark is almost impertinent," she answered, "when I've known you only seven days."
"They've been wonderful days. It really makes no difference about letters or your duties elsewhere. Where you go I shall certainly follow; that's something I should like to have understood here and now."
Loitering along the beach on our way home, I was guiltily conscious that I was making love rather ardently to a lady who had introduced herself to me as my uncle's widow. The sensation was, on the whole, very agreeable....