She knew all these things. She had thought of them, weighed them up, and counted them nothing. She was impulsive, but she knew whither her impulse led and what it involved. She knew that Verreker would insult her.... And yet she wrote to him. As she ran joyously down Gifford Road to post the letter she thought: “What will he think of my note? What will he think of the wording of it? How will the concluding sentence affect him?--‘Will you do this for me?’--So charming, so delightfully personal, so intimate, with a dash of roguish coquetry! But will he see all that?--or will he think it merely impudent?” Anyway, she decided, I should get an answer by Wednesday morning.... § 2 She worked it out mathematically. He would receive the note by the first post on Tuesday morning. If he wrote immediately it was just possible that a reply might reach her by the seven o’clock post on Tuesday evening. However, such promptness was unlikely and not to be expected; it was much more probable that he would write later on in the day, so that she should receive his answer by breakfast time on Wednesday. She pinned her hopes to breakfast time on Wednesday. Yet she could not help a feeling of tense anticipation when the postman knocked at the door on Tuesday evening. He has been prompt, she told herself triumphantly, and she sat down at the piano and started to turn over the pages of a Bach Concerto. She would not betray her excitement by rushing down into the kitchen to fetch the letter. She would let Mrs. Carbass bring it up to her. After all, it was absurd to be so concerned about a letter. And a few minutes made no difference in any case. But Mrs. Carbass did not come. And the awful strangling thought came to Catherine: “Perhaps there wasn’t a letter for me!” At least, it was awful and strangling at first, until she told herself somewhat irritably: “Well, you didn’t expect one, did you? Give the man time!” And of course there was Bank Holiday traffic: possibly that accounted for some delay. Curious that she should have neglected that superbly facile explanation--of course, it must be Bank Holiday traffic.... Or perhaps Mrs. Carbass had forgotten to bring it up. Catherine discovered a sudden desire to borrow Mrs. Carbass’s scissors. She went down the short flight of steps into the dark kitchen. “Can I have your scissors a moment, Mrs. Carbass?” “Certainly, miss.... Leave ’em up there w’en you’ve finished with ’em an’ I’ll take ’em w’en I brings the supper....” She took the scissors off the hook and handed them to Catherine. “By the way,” said Catherine at the door, “post been yet?” “Yes, miss. Nothink for you. Only a Hodson’s dripery circular--they’re always sendin’ ’em round.” “Thanks!” replied Catherine nonchalantly, and went back to her sitting-room.