"Thanks," Ethel replied, taking the envelope. She did not look straight at him, after her wont, but leant against the wall, pale, and even a little breathless, as if she had been running uphill. It flashed across her mind that, if she followed Daisy's example, she would send to Daisy by Nigel the postscript which she had herself received. "But I cannot—cannot!" she cried to herself. "Impossible! I will send it back to Mr. Carden-Cox."
Nigel stood gazing at Ethel, with a face of grieved surprise. He could not make her out.
"You don't mind, I hope. Daisy did not find that it was meant for you till the end. Of course she will tell nobody what she has read."
"Mind! Oh no! Mr. Carden-Cox's letters are not so very important—commonly."
"It is not half-past seven yet. May I come in for a few minutes? We don't dine till eight," said Nigel, sorely chilled by her manner, yet hoping against hope that it might mean nothing.
"Yes, of course. My mother is in the drawing-room."
"And you will come too?"
"I can't. Lance wants me; and I have to write a note for the post."
"Just for a minute! The post doesn't go till eight."
"Our pillar is emptied a quarter before; and Lance—"