The Tin Soldier. Temple Bailey
not been able to get out of going. All the time she had talked to Ralph she had thought of Derry. She had rather hoped that he might be there, but he wasn't.
The letter required much thought. She tore up, extravagantly, several sheets of note-paper with tiny embossed thistles at the top. Doctor McKenzie was intensely Scotch, and he was entitled to a crest, but he was also intensely American, and would have none of it. He had designed Jean's note-paper, and it was lovely. But it was also expensive, and it was a shame to waste so much of it on Derry Drake.
The note when it was finished seemed very simple. Just one page in Jean's firm, clear script:
"Dear Mr. Drake:—
"Could you spare me one little minute tomorrow? I shall be at home at four. It is very important—to me at least. Perhaps when you hear what I have to say, it will seem important to you. I hope it may.
"Very sincerely yours,
"JEAN MCKENZIE."
She read it over several times. It seemed very stiff and inadequate. She sealed it and stamped it, then in a panic tore it open for a re-reading. She was oppressed by doubts. Did nice girls ask men to come and see them? Didn't they wait and weary like Mariana of the Moated Grange—? "He cometh not, she said?"
New times! New manners! She had branded a man as a coward. She had condemned him unheard. She had slighted him, she had listened while others slandered—why should she care what other women had done? Would do? Her way was clear. She owed an apology to Derry Drake, and she would make it.
So with a new envelope, a new stamp, the note was again sealed.
It had to be posted that night. She felt that under no circumstance could she stand the suspense of another day.
She had heard her father go out. Hilda was coming up, the maids were asleep. She waited until Hilda's door was shut, then she slipped out of bed, tucked her toes into a pair of sandals, threw a furry motor coat around her, and sped silently down the stairs. She shrank back as she opened the front door. The sleet rattled on the steps, the pavements were covered with white.
The mail-box was in front of the house. She made a rush for it, dropped in the precious letter, and gained once more the haven of the warm hall.
She was glad to get back to her room. As she settled down among her pillows, she had a great sense of adventure, as if she had travelled far in a few moments.
As a matter of fact, she had made her first real excursion into the land of romance. She found her thoughts galloping.
At the foot of the bed her silver Persian, Polly Ann, lay curled on her own gray blanket.
"Polly Ann," Jean said, "if he doesn't come, I shall hate myself for writing that note."
Polly Ann surveyed her sleepily.
"But it would serve me right if he didn't, Polly Ann."
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