She conjured up not only ghosts but absurdities. The shabby peering man would go to Hampstead, question Gabriel’s silly sister, _be shown letters_. This was more than she could bear. On the last occasion letters of hers had been read in court; love letters to James! She cringed in her bed at the remembrance of them. And what had she written to Gabriel? Not one word came back to her of anything she had written. At first she knew they had been laboured letters, laboured or literary. But since she had been down here, and Peter Kennedy, by sheer force of contrast, had taught her how much she could care for a really good and clever man, she had written with entire unrestraint, freely. She wrote that telegram to Gabriel Stanton at four o’clock in the morning, going down to the drawing-room for a telegram form in dressing-gown and slippers, her hair in two plaits, shivering with cold and apprehension. The house was full of eerie sounds; she heard pursuing feet. After she had secured the forms she rushed for the shelter of her room and the warmth of her bed; cowering under the clothes, not able for a long time to do the task she had set herself. When she became sufficiently rested she took more time and care over the wording of her telegram to Gabriel than she might have done over a sonnet. She wanted to say just enough, not too much, not to bring him down, yet to make the matter urgent. Stevens was rung for at six o’clock for tea and perhaps sympathy. “Get me a cup of tea as quickly as you can, I’ve been awake the whole night. I want this telegram sent off as soon as the office opens, not later anyway than eight o’clock. Keep the house as quiet as you can. I shall try and sleep now.” She slept until Gabriel’s telegram came back. * * * * * One of our own men coming with package by 3.15. * * * * * She met the train, looking pale and wretched. Stanton’s man wore the familiar cap. She had been to the office two or three times about the pottery book, and he recognised her easily. “You have a parcel for me?” “Mr. Gabriel said I was to tell you there was a letter inside.” “A letter! But I thought ... oh, yes! Give it to me.” “And I was to ask if there was an answer.” “An answer, but I can’t write here!” “He didn’t know you was meeting me. ‘Go up to the house,’ he said; ‘give it to her in her own hands. Ask if there is any answer.’” “Tell him ... tell him I’ll write,” she said vaguely. But as yet she had not read. What would he say, what comfort send her? For all her wired definiteness she wished he had come himself, had a moment’s disloyalty to him, thought he should have disregarded her wishes, rushed down, even if they had met only at the station. He need not have been so punctilious!