With an expression of surprise and curiosity on her face she opened the envelope and took out the enclosure. It proved to be the undomiciled, undated, unsigned lines running as follows:-- 'I am in great distress. I fear your avoidance of me since morning has been the result of some foolish things I said to you about what you thought of me. You must not mind me. You must attach no meaning or importance to these most random wicked words of mine. You know I am an inveterate talker. If my talk of to-day has made any bad impression, I beg of you, for God's sake, to give me a chance of removing it! There is no woman on earth I respect more than you; no woman on earth whose good opinion is essential to me but yours, for I love you! I implore you to give me a chance, just one, of redeeming my stupid blunder. If you do not give me this one chance, I do not know what will become of me. Forget my flippant manner. I am as terribly in earnest now as ever man was. You will answer this. I cannot look at you again until I know I am forgiven. Will you write as soon as you can to me, care of Messrs Stainsforth & Co., Bankers, Lombard Street? I shall tell the housemaid here, as though from you, that if any letters come for you this evening they are to be brought to your room, so you may be saved the inconvenience of reading this in the presence of anyone.' That night George Osborne once more found himself too excited for sleep. The day had been thick with incidents, full of conflicting emotions. The anxious morning, the solemn betrothal, the peace following it, the sharp shock of meeting Parkinson once more, the introduction to that man by his sweetheart, the strange feeling of reassurance and peace which had come upon him during the early part of his visit to Parkinson's house, the subsequent despair, followed by the cry that went up from him when he heard the plea for mercy sung by that superb voice, and the later discovery that this voice was Marie's--all crowded into one day, had left him nervous and tremulous and wakeful. He walked heavily to the window, drew back the curtains, raised up the blind, and looked out. Beneath him lay miles of dark roofs lit by the broad full moon. Fantastic gables and weird-looking vanes broke up the dull monotony of the view. Here and there deep chasms of shadow stretched right and left, leading to large pools of intense darkness where the streets broadened into squares. High above the plain of roofs and gables and vanes, like fair white spars, rose the steeples and towers and spires of a thousand churches.