The one she wanted did not appear; but she found a doleful enjoyment in reading one after another, and in contrasting their tone with what she knew she had to expect in days to come. He would write to Patricia instead of to her; he would tell Patricia everything, instead of telling her. That was the keynote of her mental ditty.
Losing herself in the thought, she ceased to read, and her fingers played aimlessly with the desk. Unconsciously she pressed a small spring with force, and a piece of wood stirred. Yes; there was a secret drawer there, of course; but she had not opened it for years and years. A touch of idle curiosity made her open it now; and she found within a sealed envelope. At the moment, memory brought no associations with the packet; but out of it dropped a small photograph. Then recollection flashed back.
"Why—Ned Fairfax!" she uttered.
It was the face of a boy of sixteen or seventeen; good-natured and sensible. She was a trifle amused, in spite of herself; recalling the long-past day when, in a fit of childish wrath, because her last letter to him had remained unanswered, she had tragically closed and sealed and put away his likeness, resolving to forget his existence.
"Seems to be my fate!" she muttered. "Everybody gives me up in turn."
A familiar voice outside the door broke upon these musings. "All right, Frip. I'll come presently. I must have a chat with Magda first."
And Rob came in; sunburnt, healthy, glowing with happiness.
Magda stood up reluctantly. She resented his manifest and supreme gladness, in which she had no share.
"Well, Magda," as she returned his kiss in limp fashion. "I have come for your congratulations. Why did you not write?"
"I—meant to. Are you going to stay?" So different from former comings did this seem, that she had to swallow a lump in her throat.