orner by the Conant building and crossed over to it, holding her
mother's and sister's letters in one hand and the note to Vickers in the
other.

Carefully scanning the addresses, to make sure she did not confuse the
letters, she dropped in her home correspondence, then stood there a
moment irresolute.

Irresolute as to what, she could not say. Her decision had been taken in
the matter of "The Last Dryad." She would accept it, as it deserved.
Whether she was still to write "Patroclus" was a matter to be
considered later. Well, she was glad she had settled it all. If she had
not come to this conclusion she might have been, at that very instant,
dropping the letter to Harold Vickers into the box. She would have
stood, thus, facing the box, have raised the cast-iron flap,--this with
one hand,--and with the other have thrust the note into the slide--thus.

Her fingers closed hard upon the letter at the very last instant--ah,
not too late. But suppose she had, but for one second, opened her thumb
and forefinger and--what? What would come of it?

And there, with the letter yet on the edge of the drop she called up
again the entire situation, the identity of the stories, the
jeopardizing--no, the wrecking--of her future career by this
chance-thrown barrier in the way. Why hesitate, why procrastinate? Her
thoughts came to her in a whirl. If she acted quickly now,--took the
leap with shut eyes, reckless of result,--she could truly be sorry then,
truly acknowledge what was right, believe that Vickers had the prior
claim without the hard necessity of acting up to her convictions. At
least, this harrowing indecision would be over with.

"Indecision?" What was this she was saying? Had she not this moment told
herself that she was resolved--resolved to accept "The Last Dryad"?
Resolved to accept it? Was that true? Had she done so? Had she not made
up her mind long ago to decline it--decline it with full knowledge that
its author would destroy it once the manuscript should be returned?

These thoughts had whisked through her mind with immeasurable rapidity.
The letter still rested half in, half out of the drop. She still held it
there.

By now Rosella knew if she let it fall she would do so deliberately,
with full knowledge of what she was about. She could not afterward
excuse herself by saying that she had been confused, excited, acting
upon an unreasoned impulse. No; it would be deliberate, deliberate,
deliberate. She would