There were three of Belinda's school friends in France—one married to a Frenchman and thoroughly imbued with the spirit of French patriotism; the other two working for the suffering wounded. But letters from all three were in cheerful vein. The wearied girl mentally compared their state with her own. In her diary she wrote:
"There is something lacking in my life. I have no spring left in me. It is not that I am more exhausted in body than I used sometimes to be in the hospital at home (the 'home' was crossed out and 'New York' written instead), but I miss something—I need something——"
A clatter against the closed shutter of her window made the girl look up. Again the rattling—was it pebbles?—startled the silence of the room. The whole house was still.
Belinda stood up, dropping her pen, one hand upon her heart. She saw her face in the little oval mirror over her dressing-table. Her lips were wreathed in a smile, her eyes were aglow. Her appearance startled the girl.
She crossed the room quite calmly as, for a third time, the pebbles clattered on the shutter. She unhooked and pushed back the swinging blind. A figure stood in the middle of the road, looking up at her.
"Belinda! Miss Melnotte!"
"Yes."
"This is Sanderson."
"I know," breathed the girl, resting both palms on the window-sill and looking down upon him. If her face had not been in the shadow! If he could have seen her luminous eyes!
"I wanted to see you again—just to speak to you," he pleaded, coming closer under the window.