She went past them into the office, but the Camden box was empty, the mail having already been taken.
“I see there is nothing for us, but I will take the Grant mail, if you please. I shall be driving past Mr. Grant’s office, and can save him the trouble of walking here,” she said to the postmaster, with her brilliant smile that almost turned his head.
“There is only one letter. It is for Mr. Grant,” he replied, taking it from Cecil’s box and handing it to the beauty with his most obsequious bow.
“I thank you,” she answered, as she grasped the treasure, and flitted out with a swish of silk and a waft of perfume that lingered all day in the minds of the admiring hangers-on at the village post-office.
CHAPTER XLV.
A FATEFUL LETTER.
While she was driving away, she looked eagerly, suspiciously, at the solitary letter for Cecil.
A cry of jealous anger parted her crimson lips.
“From Violet!”
It was indeed from Violet, whose anxiety had overridden her discretion and made her write at last to her lost lover to tell him the bitter truth about their parting.
“For it breaks my heart to have Cecil believe that I was false to him!” she sighed, to herself, and in a sudden fit of willfulness posted the letter to him without the knowledge of her friends.