She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receive Hurstwood's letters.

There was one there now, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled feelings.

There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the man.

That he loved her was evident enough.

That he had wished and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil.