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In its rebound the mercury of his mood had shot higher far than
present circumstances warranted. He was disposed to be optimistic.
What had failed last night would certainly not fail again to-night.
What was a day, after all? The Secretary's office might be
troublesome, but not really troublesome for another twenty-four
hours at least; and by then they would be well away.
This joyous confidence of his was his first misfortune. The next
was that his good spirits were also shared by Miss Bishop, and
that she bore no rancour. The two things conjoined to make the
delay that in its consequences was so deplorable.
"Good-morning, sir," she hailed him pleasantly. "It's close upon
a month since last I saw you."
"Twenty-one days to the hour," said he. "I've counted them."
"I vow I was beginning to believe you dead."
"I have to thank you for the wreath."
"The wreath?"
"To deck my grave," he explained.
"Must you ever be rallying?" she wondered, and looked at him gravely,
remembering that it was his rallying on the last occasion had driven
her away in dudgeon.


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