Afterward, of course, there would be an end. For the end must come. She
was clear-sighted enough to realize that.
As she thought these things--and quickly put away the thoughts, since
nothing must spoil this hour--there was a rap at the door, and she went to
throw it open, confident that she would see Nick smiling at her, saying in
his nice voice, "Well, are you ready?"
But it was not Nick. A bellboy of the hotel had brought up a large
cardboard box which had arrived by post. The address was printed: "Mrs.
May, Fairmont Hotel, San Francisco," and there were several stamps upon
it; but Angela could not make out the postmark. She found a pair of
scissors and cut the string. The box was tightly packed with a quantity
of beautiful foliage, lovely leaves shaped like oak leaves, and of bright
autumn colours, purple, gold, and crimson, though spring had hardly turned
to summer.
She plunged her hands into the box, lifting out the gorgeous mass, looking
for a card or note, but finding none. It was a pity that this mysterious
gift had arrived just as she was going away. However, she was keeping on
her rooms, and would leave instructions with the chambermaid to take great
care of the beauties.
Some one else was tapping at the door now, and this time it was Nick.
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