“Of course, Madeline, I don’t deny that it does show interest, and he probably must be a little in love with someone—perhaps with himself—to write a letter about nothing. As you say, it’s unusual nowadays. But you mustn’t forget that, though Rupert’s young, he belongs to the ’95 period. Things were very different then. People thought nothing of writing a long letter; and a telegram about nothing was considered quite advanced and American.”
“Oh, bother!” said Madeline, “I hate being told about the period he belongs to. It makes it seem like ancient history. Listen to what he says about you—such lovely things! ‘Mrs. Kellynch is a delightful contrast to you, and is all that is charming and brilliant, in a different way. Is she not one of those (alas, too few) who are always followed by the flutes of the pagan world?’”
“That’s really very sweet of him. I say, I wonder what it means exactly?”
“I have no idea. But it just shows, doesn’t it?”
With a satisfied smile, Madeline put the letter away. Bertha did not press to see it, but remarked: “I see he didn’t sign himself very affectionately. Evidently there’s nothing compromising in the letter.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you put it away. Otherwise you would have shown it to me. Nobody cares to show an uncompromising love-letter—with a lukewarm signature.”
“At any rate,” said Madeline, gliding over the point and leaving the letter in its cover, “your taking us out last night was a very great help. I feel I’ve made progress; he thinks more of me.”
“Yes, I thought it would be a good thing to do. Now you’d better not answer the letter, and please don’t show any anxiety if you don’t see him for a little while, either.”
“I sha’n’t be a bit anxious, Bertha, especially if it’s only racing, or something of that sort. Or, in fact, anything, unless I get afraid he’s seeing Miss Chivvey. Do you ever think that Rupert still takes an interest in Miss Chivvey?”