"But I can't understand. How is it possible?" She closed her eyes. "My letter," she whispered.
Haldicott put his arm around her and led her down the path.
"Ainslie is a dear fellow," he said. "We will write him another letter as soon as we get in."
She was hardly aware of the walk back to the little house in Mayfair, back to the doorstep where, such aeons ago, she had paused to look at the crying cat. If she had not paused, if she had gone a little earlier to the pillar-box, before the lamp was lighted----Her mind was blurred again. All--all was dream, except that life, near her, was claiming her.
Now they were in the drawing-room, among the shaded lamps, the gilt, the chintz and bric-à-brac.
Haldicott sent for wine and made her drink. He said to the maid that Miss Fraser had felt faint during her walk. For a long time Allida leaned back in the chair where he had put her, shading her eyes with her hand.
"Can you write to Ainslie now?" Haldicott asked at last. "We will send your letter by special messenger."
"Yes, yes; let me write." She drew off her gloves, and Haldicott put paper and pen before her.
This time, uncontrollably, he wanted to laugh; if he did not laugh he must burst out crying; he leaned his elbows on the table as he sat beside her, burying his face on his arms, his shoulders shaking.
Allida sat with the pen in her hand, gazing at him. The nightmare, after all, was too near for her to share his dubious amusement; but that she saw its point as well as he did was evinced in her next question, asked in still the faltering voice:
"Shall I say that I've decided to wait a day?"
"Thank Heaven, you _have_ a sense of humour. It was my one anxiety about you--all through. Say, dearest Allida, that you are awake."
She looked at him, and now, though she did not smile, her wan face was touched by a pale, responsive radiance.
"It is so strange--to be awake," she murmured, bending to her paper.
But hardly had the first slow line been written when running steps were heard outside, the door was flung open before the amazed maid could reach it, and Oliver Ainslie, white and distraught, darted into the room.
He did not glance at Haldicott. The distraction of his look had only time to break into stupefied thanksgiving before the same rush that had brought him in carried him to Allida. He fell on his knees before her. Clasping her round the waist, he hid his face, crying, "Thank God!"