“Glad to hear it,” snapped the irritated Mr. Mott.
“If you will give her that letter, I shall feel easier,” said Mr. Hurst.
“I’ll give it to her in the morning,” said the other, snatching it from him. “Now get off.”
Mr. Hurst still murmuring apologies, went, and Mr. Mott, also murmuring, returned to bed. The night was chilly, and it was some time before he could get to sleep again. He succeeded at last, only to be awakened an hour later by a knocking more violent than before. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he dived into his trousers again and went blundering downstairs in the dark.
“Sorry to—” began Mr. Hurst.
Mr. Mott made uncouth noises at him.
“I have altered my mind,” said the young man. “Would you mind letting me have that letter back again? It was too final.”
“You—get—off!” said the other, trembling with cold and passion.
“I must have that letter,” said Mr. Hurst, doggedly. “All my future happiness may depend upon it.”
Mr. Mott, afraid to trust himself with speech, dashed upstairs, and after a search for the matches found the letter, and, returning to the front door, shut it on the visitor’s thanks. His niece’s door opened as he passed it, and a gentle voice asked for enlightenment.