It was a sentimental letter, perhaps, but an honest one. After he had finally started writing it the words had come easily. He blotted the letter and didn’t read it over but simply sealed it in an envelope and left it on the small table in the hallway where residents of the inn could leave their letters to be sent.
Going back to his room, feeling somewhat restless, he happened to notice a slip of paper he must have missed coming in. Stooping to fetch it, he saw it was a note from Crook’s niece, Nettie, inviting him to have breakfast with them the next morning. Whether this missive came from Crook or the girl herself, he was grateful for it, alone as he was in this strange town.
The next morning he presented himself at the door of the small house adjoining the Queen’s Arms, a charming and tidily kept place. A very young maid, not past fourteen, answered the door and took Lenox into a sitting room that was perhaps over-furnished with examples of needlework, with small and amateurish watercolors-in other words, the sitting room of a young woman who spent much time alone and whose diversions were all, or nearly all, of her own making.