voice might answer; but a man replied: "A note from a gentleman
downstairs, please, and he's waiting an answer."

Annesley opened the door a crack, and took in a letter. The new master of
her destiny had written:

Hurrah, my darling, our affairs march! I have been arranging about the
licence, _et cetera_, and I believe that you and I can join forces for
the rest of our lives to-morrow--blessed day!

How soon can you come down and talk over plans? I've a hundred to
propose. Will you breakfast with me, or have you finished?

Yours since last night, till eternal night,

N. S.

The girl scribbled an answer, confessing that she had overslept, but
promising to be down in half an hour for breakfast. She did not stop to
think of anything but the need for a quick reply; yet when the note was
sent, and she was "doing" her hair after a splash in the porcelain bath
(what luxury for the girl who had been practically a servant!), she
re-read her love-letter, spread on the dressing-table.

She liked her lover's handwriting. It seemed to express character--just
such character as she imagined her knight's to be. There were dash and
determination, and an originality which would never let itself be bound
by convention.

Perhaps if she had been critical--if the handwriting had been that of a