“Good news, Tom, I see. Bravo, old boy. You've had a long fight for it, and deserve to win.”
Tom got up, tossed the note across the table, and began walking up and down the room; his heart was too full for speech.
“May I read?” said East, looking up. Tom nodded, and he read—
“DEAR TOM,—I am coming to town to spend a week with them in Eaton Square. Call on me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are engaged then, between three and five. I have no time to add more now, but long to see you.
Your loving cousin,
KATIE
“P.S.—I will give you your parcel back to-morrow, and then you can burn the contents yourself, or do what you like with them. Uncle bids me say he shall be glad if you will come and dine to-morrow, and any other day you can spare while I am here.”
When he had read the note, East got up and shook hands heartily with Tom, and then sat down again quietly to finish his cheroot, watching with a humorous look his friend's march.
“And you think it is really all right now?” Tom asked, in one form or another, after every few turns; and East replied in various forms of chaffing assurance that there could not be much further question on the point. At last, when he had finished his cheroot, he got up, and, taking his candle, said, “Good night, Tom; when that revolution comes, which you're always predicting, remember, if you're not shot or hung, you'll always find a roost for you and your wife in New Zealand.”
“I don't feel so sure about the revolution now, Harry.”