Marie's spirits rose like mercury. She was so excited she could hardly sleep or eat, but all the time she tried to check her joy with the warning that he might not come, that he might change his mind at the last moment. She bought herself some new frocks and went to bed early to try and drive the shadows from her eyes and bring back the color to her pale cheeks.
Then came a postcard—a picture postcard of mountains in the background and a very modern-looking clubhouse in the foreground, with a scribbled message from Chris at the corner.
"Shall be home Thursday night to dinner."
The day after to-morrow! Marie's heart fluttered into her throat as she read the words; she was afraid to go and tell Miss Chester 137 because she knew the wild happiness and excitement in her eyes. The day after to-morrow! What an eternity it would seem. She did not know how she could live through the hours.
She forgave him all his neglect and indifference; he was coming home—she would see him again and hear his voice. Nothing else mattered.
And then, just an hour later, came a telegram. She opened it with trembling hands. She was sure it was to say that he was coming sooner. For a moment the scribbled message danced before her eyes:
"Plans altered; don't expect me. Letter follows."
She dismissed the waiting maid mechanically, and read the message again. She was glad that she had not told Aunt Madge after all—it would have been such a disappointment. She screwed the telegram up and threw it into the grate.
For the moment she hated him—she wished passionately that she could make him suffer. She had sacrificed everything by her marriage with him—all hope of real happiness and a man's genuine love—even her friendship with young Atkins; while he—what difference had that mock ceremony made to Chris?
And the old despair came leaping back.