The next few days saw Stephen abnormally restless.  She had fairly well made up her mind to test her theory of equality of the sexes by asking Leonard Everard to marry her; but her difficulty was as to the doing it.  She knew well that it would not do to depend on a chance meeting for an opportunity.  After all, the matter was too serious to allow of the possibility of levity.  There were times when she thought she would write to him and make her proffer of affection in this way; but on every occasion when such thought recurred it was forthwith instantly abandoned.  During the last few days, however, she became more reconciled to even this method of procedure.  The fever of growth was unabated.  At last came an evening which she had all to herself.  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 ............