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Your very loving

Eve.

No sooner had the letter been dispatched than a terror that it would miscarry flung into Eve’s heart. She saw it being mislaid, forgotten, let to join the faded habitués of some dusty mantelpiece. Of course she should have marked it ‘Important,’ enclosed it in a note to the editor saying how serious it was, asking for it to be expressed or sent by hand. Then, at least, he would have taken action. Besides, it was serious—desperately so: and urgent—most urgent. Yet she had done nothing to accelerate a reply—nothing. What a fool she was! She had certainly asked him to wire, but why not to telephone? If the letter had gone to him by hand and he were to have telephoned....

The tide of apprehensive impatience rose to an intolerable height....

Eve rose to her feet and stood twisting her fingers.

After a moment, trembling a little, she stepped to the telephone....

“Oh, I rang up a little while ago and asked for Mr. Broke’s address—Mr. Jeremy Broke. And you said—I think I spoke to you—you said that if I sent a letter——”