"You'd like to have me invite them out here?" she asked.
"Yes, if it isn't inconvenient. I'd like to see them again."
For the next few days Beatrice's work went wrong. More often than not she found herself looking up from her paper, staring out through the window, across the lawn to the grape arbor. She would catch herself at it and turn again to her work. Finally she decided that she had best fight it out. So—forgetting to put the cap on her fountain-pen—she walked out into the garden.
There was no possible doubt of it. She was afraid of Yetta—jealous! She tried to laugh at herself, but it hurt too much. Yetta was years younger than she.
Isadore she had scarcely known, was not quite sure whether she had the name attached to the right vague memory, but she held an impression that he was an unattractive person. Yetta had probably married him in discouragement. Undoubtedly she still loved Walter. In these last four years Beatrice had been constantly discovering that he was more lovable than she had realized before. Yes; Yetta was probably still in love with him. Would she accept the invitation?
A telegraph boy turned into their gate. She had not opened a despatch with such unsteady nervousness in a long time.
"Arrive Oxford thursday afternoon four o'clock leave ten for Liverpool Yetta"
Beatrice walked slowly back to the house and into Walter's study. It was as dissimilar from her very orderly work-room as well might be. There were three large tables, but each was too small for the litter of books and charts and drawings and closely written notes it carried.
"They're coming to-morrow at four," she said, handing him the telegram.