But if he was languid and feverish, he might so easily put off writing from day to day.

This was all the more plausible as a reason, since he had not been a profuse correspondent.

He had only written when he had found he had leisure, with decent irregularity, so to speak.
At last, however, on a day when she had felt the strain of waiting greater than she had courage for, and had counted every moment of the hour which must elapse before Jane could return from her mission of inquiry, as she rested on the sofa she heard the girl mount the stairs with a step whose hastened lightness wakened in her an excited hopefulness.
She sat up with brightened face and eager eyes.

How foolish she had been to fret.

Now--now everything would be different.