Postscript.
George sealed the letter and moved to his armchair by the hearth. The March evening was chill and the fire was companionable. He was in no hurry to light his lamp, for there was always at such an hour the book in the grate which could be best read in the dark.
Turning its leaves to-night he found the record of a past which, if it offered nothing else, certainly provided variety of interest, and through its changing scenes there had always been Agatha. Agatha who, in those days when they first met, had been a beauty with a score of admirers. He had never understood why she had given them all the go-by to remain true to his unworthy self. He supposed it had become a habit. If Agatha had a fault it was that she was given to habits. She was also inclined to be conventional. He had seen her wince involuntarily when he had shocked some social prejudice, but the wince had been hustled into a corner by the smiling eyes that said, "It's very silly of me, I know". There was no doubt his friendship had saved her from the worst perils of spinsterhood. She would take to Curzon Street like a fish to water, and she would accept Mrs. Darling with the wince and its accompanying smile. The smile he had no doubt would triumph in the end, for Mrs. Darling was a sport and Agatha was no snob.
His chin dropped on his chest as the scene shifted to those days of vagabondage which had come with the gift of Katherine's two hundred a year. Days when the London streets had been the scene of limitless wanderings, providing undying interest and entertainment, romance and adventure. They had been happy days—were they ended?
The door opened with a jerk, letting in a draught and Mrs. Darling. "Jest as I expected!" she exclaimed. "I ses to myself as I was comin' up the stairs, I ses, 'I wouldn't mind bettin' 'e's sittin' there in the dark, lettin' the fire out,'" and the speaker, after making a vigorous onslaught on a smouldering lump of coal, looked round for matches.
"I don't want the lamp lit yet," complained George.
But Mrs. D. calmly proceeded with her self-elected task. "Sittin' in the dark's only fit for blind people and lovers," she stated, and her eyes went towards the stamped letter which lay on the writing pad.
"I'm jest goin' to the post, I'll take it," she offered, and a few minutes later, as she dropped the letter into the box, she said to herself, "If he 'as asked her to marry 'im, it's jest as well not to give 'im the chance of changin' 'is mind."
THE END.
ABERDEEN: THE UNIVERSITY PRESS