But Alexander's letter roused her to more than this sickness of longing that she dared not analyse too closely. "I've been waiting for that book of yours," he said. There would never be a book. And he was looking for it. She was hurt and shamed as by a promise broken to a child. Talking freely on that wonderful one day of theirs, she had told him what she meant to do, and he had given her that plunging look of response. How had she dared to talk like that, and then do nothing? She knew the answer. And now it was too late. She was to be a county lady. She had come to an age when she was no longer sure that she had the power she had always wanted; but she ought to have put it to the test, for she had told Alexander what she was going to do; she had told Alexander. The words came with such force that her lips framed them. She had told Alexander. She had another tale for him now. "Oh yes," she said, "you shall have a letter," and she quickly wrote it, sitting there with the firelight on her bare arms and her quick, thin hands. "Dear Alexander, "Thank you for your letter. It was like seeing the place. I didn't begin the book. I lost faith, and I'll never get it back. I'm weak, but perhaps it is a good thing and has saved the spilling of much ink. It was a young ambition of mine, and you know what Father is! So I'm going to be married instead, for that's a profession we all think we are fit for! I shall see you at Easter. It will be two years then. "Theresa." She felt like a penitent who has relieved her soul of sin and planted a dart in the breast of her confessor. CHAPTER XXIV As Theresa entered the drawing-room on the following afternoon, she felt the imminence of ceremony. Mrs. Morton had cast aside her crotchet and sat, in satin and old lace, awaiting the coming of her guests; and the room, softly and rosily shaded, seemed to Theresa like a temple raised to the social cult, with the tea-table for altar and Mrs. Morton for ministrant. She closed the door with a decorous quiet and advanced, her mouth curved into the faint smile that had some mobile quality though the lips were still. "I thought you would be late," said Mrs. Morton. "I did my hair three times. I wanted to look nice." "You look charming, dear. I hope you are not feeling nervous." "Oh no!" "I expect you are--a little. I remember my own introduction to the friends of Basil's father. It was in this room. It was a very anxious moment for me. One naturally wants to please, and I was very shy as a girl." "You were younger than I am, perhaps." "Only eighteen." "Ah, I'm twenty-five. That makes a lot of difference." The picture of a maiden hearkening to the wisdom of the matron, she stood before Mrs. Morton with her hands behind her back, her head bent to look and listen. "But you are not married, dear." Mrs. Morton was finding it unexpectedly easy to talk to Theresa. "And until a girl is married----"