She sealed it and stamped it, then in a panic tore it open for a
re-reading. She was oppressed by doubts. Did nice girls ask men to
come and see them? Didn't they wait and weary [Transcriber's note:
worry?] like Mariana of the Moated Grange--? "He cometh not, she said?"

New times! New manners! She had branded a man as a coward. She had
condemned him unheard. She had slighted him, she had listened while
others slandered--why should she care what other women had done? Would
do? Her way was clear. She owed an apology to Derry Drake, and she
would make it.

So with a new envelope, a new stamp, the note was again sealed.

It had to be posted that night. She felt that under no circumstance
could she stand the suspense of another day.

She had heard her father go out. Hilda was coming up, the maids were
asleep. She waited until Hilda's door was shut, then she slipped out
of bed, tucked her toes into a pair of sandals, threw a furry motor
coat around her, and sped silently down the stairs. She shrank back as
she opened the front door. The sleet rattled on the steps, the
pavements were covered with white.

The mail-box was in front of the house. She made a rush for it,
dropped in the precious letter, and gained once more the haven of the
warm hall.

She was glad to get back to her room. As she settled down among her
pillows, she had a great sense of adventure, as if she had travelled
far in a few moments.