Eleanor is not going out this afternoon, though the air is mild, the sun shines, and all the world smiles.
She has more than one call to return, which should have been done to-day, yet she sits alone in her pretty boudoir, neither reading, working, nor writing.
Her expression renders her face even more beautiful than usual in the subdued light. For a ray of winter sunshine, heralding the spring, has quite dazzled Eleanor's eyes, till she draws the blind, and settles in a cosy corner at the side of the fender.
In her hand is a letter, brief, yet to its owner teeming with news, so significant the simple wording seems:
"Why this silence? Stay at home to-day. I must see you."
It is neither commenced nor signed, but written in Carol Quinton's familiar hand.
Surely there is something imperative about that "Stay at home to-day." No "please," or "will you?" Merely the bare command. True the must is underlined, and the question savours of anxiety as to her reticence in writing or meeting him again.
"Well, he shall come, since this is to be the end."
Better face the matter out; it is dangerous dodging poisoned arrows. She will try how her shield works, that is to glance them aside.