Miss Laetitia was going
over to Norwood to look after matters there, and would remain the night. Stephen saw in her absence an opportunity for thought and action, and
said that, having a headache, she would remain at home. Her aunt offered
to postpone her visit. But she would not hear of it; and so she had the
evening to herself. After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of a
letter to Leonard which would convey at least something of her feelings
and wishes towards him. In the depths of her heart, which now and again
beat furiously, she had a secret hope that when once the idea was
broached Leonard would do the rest. And as she thought of that 'rest' a
languorous dreaminess came upon her. She thought how he would come to
her full of love, of yearning passion; how she would try to keep towards
him, at first, an independent front which would preserve her secret
anxiety until the time should come when she might yield herself to his
arms and tell him all. For hours she wrote letter after letter,
destroying them as quickly as she wrote, as she found that she had but
swayed pendulum fashion between overtness and coldness. Some of the
letters were so chilly in tone that she felt they would defeat their own
object. Others were so frankly warm in the expression of--regard she
called it, that with burning blushes she destroyed them at once at the
candle before her. At last she made up her mind. Just as she had done when a baby she
realised that the opposing forces were too strong for her; she gave in
gracefully. It would not do to deal directly in a letter with the matter
in hand. She would write to Leonard merely asking him to see her. Then,
when they were together without fear of interruption, she would tell him
her views. She got as far as 'Dear Mr. Leonard,' when she stood up, saying to
herself:

'I shall not be in a hurry. I must sleep on it before I write!' She
took up the novel she had been reading in the afternoon, and read on at
it steadily till her bedtime. That night she did not sleep. It was not that she was agitated. Indeed,
she was more at ease than she had been for days; she had after much
anxious thought made up her mind to a definite course of action. Therefore her sleeplessness was not painful. It was rather that she did
not want to sleep, than that she could not. She lay still, thinking,
thinking; dreaming such dreams as are the occasions of sanctified privacy
to her age and sex. In the morning she was no worse for her vigil. When at luncheon-time
Aunt Laetitia had returned she went into all the little matters of which
she had to report. It was after tea-time when she found herself alone,
and with leisure to attend to what was, she felt, directly her own
affair. During the night she had made up her mind exactly what to say to
Leonard; and as her specific resolution bore the test of daylight she was
satisfied. The opening words had in their inception caused her some
concern; but after hours of thought she had come to the conclusion that
to address, under the circumstance, the recipient of the letter as 'Dear
Mr. Everard' would hardly do. The only possible justification of her
unconventional act was that there existed already a friendship, an
intimacy of years, since childhood; that there were already between them
knowledge and understanding of each other; that what she was doing, and
about to do, was but a further step in a series of events long ago
undertaken. She thought it better to send by post rather than messenger, as the
latter did away with all privacy with regard to the act. The letter was as follows:

   'DEAR LEONARD,--Would it be convenient for you to meet me to-morrow,
   Tuesday, at half-past twelve o'clock on the top of Caester Hill? I
   want to speak about a matter that may have some interest to you, and
   it will be more private there than in the house. Also it will be
   cooler in the shade on the hilltop.--

   Yours sincerely, STEPHEN NORMAN.' Having posted the letter she went about the usual routine of her life at
Normanstand, and no occasion of suspicion or remark regarding her came to
her aunt. In her room that night when she had sent away her maid, she sat down to
think, and all the misgivings of the day came back. One by one they were
conquered by one protective argument:

'I am free to do as I like. I am my own mistress; and I am doing nothing
that is wrong. Even if it is unconventional, what of that? God knows
there are enough conventions in the world that are wrong, hopelessly,
unalterably wrong. After all, who are the people who are most bound by
convention? Those who call themselves "smart!" If Convention is the god
of the smart set, then it is about time that honest people chose
another!' * * * * *

Leonard received the letter at breakfast-time. He did not give it any
special attention, as he had other letters at the same time, some of
which were, if less pleasant, of more immediate importance. He had of
late been bombarded with dunning letters from tradesmen; for during his
University life, and ever since, he had run into debt. The moderate
allowance his father made him he had treated as cash for incidental
expenses, but everything else had been on credit. Indeed he was
beginning to get seriously alarmed about the future, for his father, who
had paid his debts once, and at a time when they were by comparison
inconsiderable, had said that he would not under any circumstances pay
others. He was not sorry, therefore, for an opportunity of getting away
for a few hours from home; from himself--from anxieties, possibilities. The morning was a sweltering one, and he grumbled to himself as he set
out on his journey through the woods. * * * * *

Stephen rose fresh and in good spirits, despite her sleepless night. When
youth and strength are to the fore, a night's sleep is not of much
account, for the system once braced up is not allowed to slacken. It was
a notable sign of her strong nature that she was not even impatient, but
waited with calm fixity the hour at which she had asked Leonard Everard
to meet her. It is true that as the time grew closer her nerve was less
marked. And just before it she was a girl--and nothing more; with all
girl's diffidence, a girl's self-distrust, a girl's abnegation, a girl's
plasticity. In the more purely personal aspect of her enterprise Stephen's effort was
more conscious. It is hardly possible for a pretty woman to seek in her
study of perfection the aid of her mirror and to be unconscious of her
aims. There must certainly be at least one dominant purpose: the
achievement of success. Stephen did not attempt to deny her own beauty;
on the contrary she gave it the fullest scope. There was a certain
triumph in her glance as she took her last look in her mirror; a
gratification of her wish to show herself in the best way possible. It
was a very charming picture which the mirror reflected.