in it--strange, and yet how vivid a sign that, even to a nature absorbed
in its personal demands, not happiness but completeness is the inmost
craving! "A life of your own"--that was what even Bessy, in her obscure
way, felt to be best worth suffering for. And how was a spirit like
Justine's, thrilling with youth and sympathy, to conceive of an isolated
existence as the final answer to that craving? A life circumscribed by
one's own poor personal consciousness would not be life at all--far
better the "adventure of the diver" than the shivering alone on the
bank! Bessy, reading encouragement in her silence, returned her
hand-clasp with an affectionate pressure.

"You _would_ like that, Justine?" she said, secretly proud of having hit
on the convincing argument.

"To endow hospitals with your cousin's money? No; I should want
something much more exciting!"

Bessy's face kindled. "You mean travelling abroad--and I suppose New
York in winter?"

Justine broke into a laugh. "I was thinking of your cousin himself when
I spoke." And to Bessy's disappointed cry--"Then it _is_ Dr. Wyant,
after all?" she answered lightly, and without resenting the challenge:
"I don't know. Suppose we leave it to the oracle."

"The oracle?"

"Time. His question-and-answer department is generally the most reliable
in the long run." She started up, gently drawing Bessy to her feet. "And
just at present he reminds me that it's nearly six, and that you
promised Cicely to go and see her before you dress for dinner."

Bessy rose obediently. "Does he remind you of _your_ promises too? You
said you'd come down to dinner tonight."

"Did I?" Justine hesitated. "Well, I'm coming," she said, smiling and
kissing her friend.

XV

WHEN the door closed on Mrs. Amherst a resolve which had taken shape in
Justine's mind during their talk together made her seat herself at her
writing-table, where, after a moment's musing over her suspended pen,
she wrote and addressed a hurried note. This business despatched, she
put on her hat and jacket, and letter in hand passed down the corridor
from her room, and descended to the entrance-hall below. She might have
consigned her missive to the post-box which conspicuously tendered its
services from a table near the door; but to do so would delay the
letter's despatch till morning, and she felt a sudden impatience to see
it start.

The tumult on the terrace had transferred itself within doors, and as
Justin