‘Don’t talk of good luck yet. I have not lost my Bartrand temper. Plenty of bad times may be in store for both of us.’
‘And when was this sent to me’ Geoffrey touched his breast-pocket, in token that Marjorie’s ribbon and letter lay there. ‘The address is an enigma. There is a faded look I cannot interpret about the handwriting.’
‘I left the packet fifteen months ago at your hotel in Guernsey.’ The girl’s face drooped. ‘You ought to have had it on the day after—after my vile temper drove you away from Tintajeux. I wrote ... one word ... as you wished; I sent you the bit of Spanish ribbon for a book-marker. But fortune was against me. I forgot that you and your cousin Gaston had the same initial.’
‘If Gaston had opened a letter wrongly he would have brought it to me on the spot.’
‘There was mistake within mistake—at that time poor Dinah’s heart was near to breaking—so she writes me now.’
‘Dinah! You have heard from Mrs. Arbuthnot? Let me see her explanation.’
‘I will read a passage or two aloud.’ Marjorie Bartrand drew the Italian letter from her pocket.
‘No. You will let me read every word of it for myself.’
And Geoffrey Arbuthnot took the letter, unfolded, and read it through.
‘Dinah was tried beyond her strength,’ said Marjorie, instinctively deciphering a pained expression on Geoffrey’s face. ‘But she has no need to feel so contrite. It will make our happiness doubly sweet to know it has come to us, in the end, from Dinah’s hand.’