was oblivious of her own good looks. The world of monotonous
order rocked in chaos beneath her feet; volcano-like, those written
words had convulsed the landscape, transforming the familiar features
into new and astounding shapes.

Out of the shock and amazement it was difficult to realise the
predominant sensation. Was it anger; was it excitement; was it relief
that at last, at last, something had happened to lift life out of the
eternal jog-trot? Katrine did not know, she did not trouble to think;
for the moment it was enough to sit still, and let the whirlwind rush
through her veins. Whether she were angry or glad, for the moment, at
least, the latent powers of feeling were stirred into being; she was
strongly, vitally, _alive_!

An unknown man had accosted her with what was virtually an expression of
love; had flung down the gage, and challenged her to the reply. "_For
the moment_" he demanded nothing more than an intimate correspondence,
with the object of gaining an opportunity to reveal his own identity,
and evoking her sympathy in return...

She looked at the brass box lying upon the table, the beautiful antique
whose real nature had been so openly confessed; she looked at the stiff,
three-lined message of decorum; she looked at the letter lying open in
her hand, at the strong, clear lettering of that opening
word.--"_Katrine_!" she murmured beneath her breath,--"Katrine!" The
word came to her ear with a new delight. The commonplace had vanished,
it seemed to breathe of beauty and romance. Her hands retained their
hold of the letter, she raised it from her knee, read it once more and
bit hard upon her lip. "What can he think of me? What impression must
my letters have left, if he can believe that it is _possible_ that I
could agree to such a suggestion? He can't have much respect--"

She fumed, flushed, scorched him with disdain, then suddenly found
herself faced by another paragraph, and suffered a humiliating collapse.
"_The Cranford cramp_." He had seen signs! How had he seen signs?
Could it indeed be true, that while she was complacently denouncing the
narrow-mindedness of her neighbours, the infection had touched herself?
Impulse prompted her to thrust aside so humiliating a suggestion, but a
doubt remained...

Was it possible to live for years in a narrow sphere, surrounded by an
atmosphere of petty detail, and yet keep one's own attitude broad and
free?

With a certain fierceness of si