But meanwhile the time was passing. Laura descended to the library and, picking up a book, composed herself to read. When six o’clock struck, she made haste to assure herself that of course she could not expect him exactly on the hour. No, she must make allowances; the day⁠—as Page had suspected⁠—had probably been an important one. He would be a little late, but he would come soon. “If you love me, you will come,” she had said.

But an hour later Laura paced the room with tight-shut lips and burning cheeks. She was still alone; her day, her hour, was passing, and he had not so much as sent word. For a moment the thought occurred to her that he might perhaps be in great trouble, in great straits, that there was an excuse. But instantly she repudiated the notion.

“No, no,” she cried, beneath her breath. “He should come, no matter what has happened. Or even, at the very least, he could send word.”