"
"I wonder what his name is?" she speculated; "H. F.--H.--Henry,
Horace--I shouldn't think he had a name people called him by."
She read her own letter through, and as she was folding it stopped; it
occurred to her that he might think courtesy demanded a formal refusal
of his proposal. It was, of course, quite unnecessary; the refusal
went without saying; she would no more have dreamed of accepting his
quixotic offer than he would have dreamed of avoiding the necessity of
making it; the one was as much a _sine qua non_ to her as the other
was to him. From which it would appear that in some ways at least
their notions of honour were not so many miles apart.
She flattened her letter again; perhaps he would think the definite
word more polite, so she added a postscript--
"Of course this means no. I am sorry we can't go on with the
excursion, but we can't, you know. The holiday is over; this
is 'to-morrow,' so good-bye."
After that she fastened the envelope, and a while later went out to
post it. As she went up the drive she caught sight of Joost some
distance away in the gardens; his face was not towards her, and she
congratulated herself that he had not seen her. However, the
congratulations were premature; when she came back from the post she
found him standing just inside the gate waiting for her, obviously
waiting.
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