She looked pale and washed-out with the heat. The outlines of her splendid figure were drooping, and there was an ominous hollowing of the curves of her face and arms. She sat at the table, her cheek resting on her palm, reading from a pile of letters. They were long letters, closely written in a sharp, scrawling hand, on thin paper that crackled gently as she fingered it. Every now and then she looked up anxiously, and seemed to listen. Then her head would bow again, and the paper would crackle softly as before. At last the garden gate clicked, and she saw the postman's cap coming up the path between the rows of sweet peas. She sprang to her feet, trembling and fighting for her self-command. She reached the door just as he lifted his hand to knock. "A letter for you, miss," and old Winkworth smiled genially. The colour rushed over Janey's cheeks like a wave, then as a wave ebbed out again. She took the letter with a hand that shook piteously, her lips parted and a low laugh broke from them. Then suddenly her expression changed--in such a manner that Winkworth muttered anxiously-- "Fine afternoon, ain't it, miss?" "Yes--a glorious afternoon. Good-day, Winkworth." "Good-day, miss," and he shambled off. Janey turned into the house, and dropping into her chair by the table, began to sob childishly. It was more from exhaustion than grief--the exhaustion of hopes strained to breaking-point, and then allowed to relax again into disappointment and frustration. She was so dreadfully tired--she so longed to sleep, quietly, deeply, at once. She laid her head on the table, and her shoulders heaved, straining and struggling as if the burden of her sorrow were physical. Then suddenly she noticed the unopened letter, and her sobs broke out with even greater vehemence. Nigel! poor Nigel! She had not opened his letter--she had flung it aside and forgotten it, because it was not Quentin's. It was the day of his concert, too--what a beast she felt! She tore open the envelope, and wiped away the tears that blinded her. "MY OWN DEAR JANEY, "This is just to keep myself from thinking of that damned concert. It's scaring me a bit--more than a bit, in fact. Who would have thought that any one with my past could suffer from stage fright?--but that little thing of Scriabin's is the very devil. Old von G. has been ragging me no end over it--we nearly came to blows last practice. I hope you and the lad don't mind my not wanting you to come up for the show; I feel it would be the last straw for you two to see me make a fool of myself--not that I mean to, but you never know what may happen. Cheer up--you shall come and help me when I fill the Albert Hall. "By the way, I saw that little bounder Quentin Lowe at a concert at the Queen's last Sunday. "Now, good-bye; I'm turning into bed. This time to-morrow it'll all be over, and I'll send you a telegram. Greetings to the lad.