"But what am I to do?" said she. "Mary will never allow me to send for him—and I have not his address in any case——"
The Laird took a telegram from his breast-pocket.
"There it is," said he, "until the end of this week, at all events."
She looked at it hesitatingly; it was from the office of the magazine that Angus Sutherland edited; and was in reply to a question of the Laird's. Then she lifted her eyes.
"Do you think I might ask Mary herself?"
"That is for a woman to decide," said he; and again she was thrown back on her own resources.
Well, this midge of a woman has some courage too. She began to reflect on what the Laird had adventured, and done, for the sake of this girl; and was she not prepared to risk something also? After all, if these two had been fostering a vain delusion, it would be better to have it destroyed at once.
And so she went out into the garden, where she found Miss Avon again seated at her easel. She went gently over to her; she had the telegram in her hand. For a second or two she stood irresolute; then she boldly walked across the lawn, and put her hand on the girl's shoulder. With the other hand she held the telegram before Mary Avon's eyes.
"Mary," said she, in a very low and gentle voice, "will you write to him now and ask him to come back?"
The girl dropped the brush she had been holding on to the grass, and her face got very pale.