"My dear, I thought you were never coming," said the Colonel fretfully. "Pray don't fluster me. I really am not equal—Do shut the door, there is such a draught from downstairs. I am quite chilly, and—what? Who is this from?"
"Your old friend, Colonel Erskine."
Dorothea clasped her hands with eager excitement and self-restraint. She longed to tear the envelope open; but Colonel Tracy turned it round dubiously.
"I suppose he thinks the Christmas card ought to have gone; I forgot it, of course. A man cannot remember things when he is ill."
"I sent it—a few days ago."
"You did!"
"Yes,—I found it by accident. Was I wrong? I had to go to your desk one day,—don't you remember?—and the card was there. I didn't like to bother you with questions, and Colonel Erskine's address I happened to know already, so I just sent it off, with a note explaining why it had not gone sooner."
"How did this come? It has no stamp."
"Enclosed in an envelope to me, to be given to you, if you should be well enough."
Colonel Tracy made way slowly into the envelope, pulled out what was within, and jumped as if he had received an electric shock.