“Helen!” cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back, and stood awaiting his commands.
“What do you want, Arthur?” I said at length.
“Nothing,” replied he. “Go!”
I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door, I turned again. It sounded very like “confounded slut,” but I was quite willing it should be something else.
“Were you speaking, Arthur?” I asked.
“No,” was the answer, and I shut the door and departed. I saw nothing more of him till the following morning at breakfast, when he came down a full hour after the usual time.
“You’re very late,” was my morning’s salutation.
“You needn’t have waited for me,” was his; and he walked up to the window again. It was just such weather as yesterday.
“Oh, this confounded rain!” he muttered. But, after studiously regarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea, seemed to strike him, for he suddenly exclaimed, “But I know what I’ll do!” and then returned and took his seat at the table. The letter-bag was already there, waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examined the contents, but said nothing about them.
“Is there anything for me?” I asked.