ohn Orgreave's ready-stamped envelopes.

In quitting the house he inadvertently banged the heavy front door.

"Do 'em good!" he said, thinking of awakened sleepers.

It was now quite light. He dropped the letter into the pillar-box round
the corner, and as soon as he had irretrievably done so, the thought
occurred to him: "I wish I hadn't put '3.30 a.m.' There's something
rottenly sentimental about it." The chill fresh air was bracing him to a
more perfect sanity. He raised the collar of his overcoat.

IV

At the club on Tuesday morning Downs brought to his bedside a letter
addressed in a large, striking, and untidy hand. Not until he had
generally examined the letter did he realize that it was from Lois
Ingram. He remembered having mentioned to her that he lived at his
club--Pickering's; but he had laid no stress on the detail, nor had she
seemed to notice it. Yet she must have noticed it.

"DEAR GEORGE,--I am so glad. Miss Wheeler is going to her bootmaker's in
Conduit Street to-morrow afternoon. She's always such a long time there.
Come and have tea with me at the new Prosser's in Regent Street, four
sharp. I shall have half an hour.--L.I."

In his heart he pretended to jeer at this letter. He said it was 'like'
Lois. She calmly assumed that at a sign from her he, a busy man, would
arrange to be free in the middle of the afternoon! Doubtless the letter
was the consequence of putting '3.30 a.m.' on his own letter. What could
a fellow expect?...

All pretence! In reality the letter flattered and excited him. He
thought upon the necktie he would wear.

By the same post arrived a small parcel: it contained a ring, a few
other bits of jewellery, and all the letters and notes that he had ever
written or scribbled to Marguerite. He did not want the jewellery back;
he did not want the letters back. To receive them somehow humiliated
him. Surely she might have omitted this nauseous conventionality! She
was so exasperatingly conscientious. Her neat, clerk-like calligraphy,
on the label of the parcel, exasperated him. She had carefully kept
every scrap of a missive from him. He hated to look at the letters. What
could he do with them except rip them up? And the miserable
trinkets--which she had worn, which had been part of her? As for him, he
had not kept all her letters--not by any means. There might be a few,
lying about in drawers. He would have to collect and return them. Odious
job! And he could not ask anybo