"Sailing by Touraine arriving sixth Christine Latimer."
He read and re-read it until the type grew blurred. What did it
mean? He asked himself that a thousand times. What did it mean? He
sought his room and locked the door, striding up and down with
agitation, the cablegram clenched in his hand. He was beside
himself, triumphant and yet in a fever of misgiving. Was it not
perhaps a coincidence--not an answer to his own letter, but one of
those extraordinary instances of what is called telepathy? Her
words would bear either interpretation. Possibly the whole family
was returning with her. Possibly she had never seen his letter at
all. Possibly it was following her back to America, unopened and
undelivered.
"Sailing by Touraine arriving sixth." Was that an answer? Perhaps
indeed it was. Perhaps it was a woman's way of saying "yes"; it
might even be, in her surpassing kindness, that she was coming to
break her refusal as gently as she might, too considerate of his
feelings to write it baldly on paper. At least, amid all these
doubts, it assured him of one thing, her regard; that he was not
forgotten; that he had been mistaken in thinking himself ignored.
He spent the next eight days in a cruel and heart-breaking
suspense. He could hardly eat or sleep. He grew thin and started
at a sound. He paid a dollar to have the Touraine's arrival
telegraphed to the office; another dollar to have it telegraphed
to the boarding-house; he was fearful that one or the other might
miscarry, and repeatedly warned the landlady of a possible message
for him in the middle of the night.
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