“Florine!” he exclaimed, in surprise, at sight of the cloaked and bonneted figure.
“Yes, sir. I have been to the theater. My mistress gave me this evening out,” answered the artful maid, thinking that she could turn this seemingly awkward contretemps to good account.
He hesitated a moment, then asked, eagerly:
“Do you think that Mrs. Laurens is awake yet, Florine?”
“I expect so, sir. She does not sleep well at night for fretting and crying.”
The words struck his heart with pain and reproach.
“‘Fretting and crying,’ and no one to comfort her, poor child!” he thought, and held up his hand. “Wait,” he said.
He drew pencil and paper from his pocket, and wrote rapidly some words that had been burning his heart all day:
“My darling wife, forgive me for that cruel letter. My love has conquered pride, anger and resentment. Let us throw the past behind us, and begin life anew. May I come to you and hear the story I once refused to listen to from you?
Your Own Cecil.”