Nora dropped the letter. Her cheeks burned with indignation. It was in this light, then, that her father judged Wolff von Arnim’s grave, almost formal, courtesy, their innocent, straightforward friendship together! And yet, beneath the indignation, new fears and doubts stirred to life. She did not attempt to analyse them. Impatiently, as though seeking to escape from all self-interrogation, she picked up the second letter and tore it open. It was from Arnold. Like the man, the handwriting was bold and clear, the sentences abrupt, sincere, and unpolished. In a few lines he thanked her for her last letter, outlined the small events of his own life. He then plunged into the immediate future. "Unexpectedly, I have been granted a year’s leave to travel in Central Africa," he had written. "You can understand that I shall be only too glad to get out of England and to have some active work outside the usual military grind. I leave Southampton in two days’ time, so that you will not have time to answer this. In any case, I do not want you to hurry. I reach Aden on the 10th. That will give you time to consider what I am going to say. Hitherto I have been silent as to the matter that lies nearest my heart, but now I am going so far from you I must speak, Nora. I believe that one day you will become my wife. I believe that it is so destined, and I believe you know it as well as I do. Our parting at Victoria convinced me, or at least it gave me the greatest possible hope. I believe that if I had jumped into the carriage beside you and taken you in my arms, you would have yielded. I was a fool to have hesitated, but perhaps it is best that you should decide in cold blood. You know what I have to offer you—an honest, clean devotion, not the growth of a moment’s passion, but of years. I know you and I love and understand you—even to your faults. You know me, and whether you love me or not, you at least know that I am a man who never changes, who will be twenty years hence what he is to-day. Is this to be despised? Is not reciprocal trust and understanding worth more than a shortlived passion? Nora, do not count it against me if I cannot write to you eloquently, if I am poor in all the outward elegancies of speech and manner. I have no metaphors to describe my love to you; no doubt I shall always fail in those graceful nothings which you seem to appreciate so much. I can only speak and act as a straightforward Englishman who offers a woman his honest love. For the second—but not the last time, if needs must be—will you be my wife? Consider well, dearest, and if you can, let me go into my exile with the blessed knowledge that in a short time—for I shall not wait a year—I may come and fetch you home. Nora..." Hoofs clattered impatiently in the street outside. The Arnims’ little maid opened the door and grinned with mysterious friendliness.