The next day came a telegram.
“Re letter Félise. If you want to find yourself at last go straight to Bigourdin. Fortinbras.”
The message was a lash. She had not contemplated the possibility of going to France. In the sleepless nights she had ached to be with him. But how? In Tierra del Fuego he would be equally inaccessible.
“Go straight to him.” The words were very simple. Of course she would go. Why had she waited for Fortinbras to point out her duty?
Then came the humiliating knowledge of impotence. She looked in her purse and counted out her fortune of thirteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny. A very humble Corinna showed letter and telegram to her mother.
“The war seems to have turned everything upside down,” said the latter. “You ought to go, dear. It’s a sacred duty.”
“But how can I? I have no money. I can’t ask father.”
“Come upstairs,” said Mrs. Hastings.
She led the way to her bedroom and from a locked drawer took an old-fashioned japanned despatch-box, which she opened.
“All my married life,” she said, “I have managed to keep something against a rainy day. Take what you want, dear.”