"Yes—a glorious afternoon. Good-day, Winkworth."
"Good-day, miss," and he shambled off.
Janey turned into the house, and dropping into her chair by the table, began to sob childishly. It was more from exhaustion than grief—the exhaustion of hopes strained to breaking-point, and then allowed to relax again into disappointment and frustration. She was so dreadfully tired—she so longed to sleep, quietly, deeply, at once. She laid her head on the table, and her shoulders heaved, straining and struggling as if the burden of her sorrow were physical.
Then suddenly she noticed the unopened letter, and her sobs broke out with even greater vehemence. Nigel! poor Nigel! She had not opened his letter—she had flung it aside and forgotten it, because it was not Quentin's. It was the day of his concert, too—what a beast she felt!
She tore open the envelope, and wiped away the tears that blinded her.
"My own dear Janey,
"This is just to keep myself from thinking of that damned concert. It's scaring me a bit—more than a bit, in fact. Who would have thought that any one with my past could suffer from stage fright?—but that little thing of Scriabin's is the very devil. Old von G. has been ragging me no end over it—we nearly came to blows last practice. I hope you and the lad don't mind my not wanting you to come up for the show; I feel it would be the last straw for you two to see me make a fool of myself—not that I mean to, but you never know what may happen. Cheer up—you shall come and help me when I fill the Albert Hall.
"By the way, I saw that little bounder Quentin Lowe at a concert at the Queen's last Sunday.
"Now, good-bye; I'm turning into bed. This time to-morrow it'll all be over, and I'll send you a telegram. Greetings to the lad.
"Ever yours, dear,
"Nigel."
Janey folded the letter with trembling hands. It filled her with a kind of pitiful anguish, for she knew that the only thing in it that interested her was the reference to Quentin. Nigel's wonderful concert, about which she and Len had dreamed so many dreams, had faded into the background of her thoughts, driven out by her sleepless, bruising anxiety for her lover.
It was over a fortnight since he had written. She had before her his last letter, in which he said: "I will write again in a day or two, and tell you the exact date of my return." She had waited, but the letter had not come. She had written, but had had no answer. What could have happened?
There had been nothing in the past few weeks to make her expect this silence. His last bid for independence had met with more success than the others. He had fought hard against failure and discouragement, and had now found work on one or two good dailies. Their marriage was at last in sight. He was expected home for a couple of weeks' holiday, then he would work on through the autumn, and there was no reason why, if things prospered, they should not be married soon after Christmas.