A suspicion of the truth struck them both. Charlie produced his letter.
“She writes,” he said, showing the postmark, “from Dittington.”
“It is! It is!” she cried. “It must be Mary Travers that Mr. Ashforth is going to marry!”
“Is that your friend?”
“Yes. Is she pretty, Mr. Ellerton?”
“Oh, awfully. What sort of a fellow is he?”
“Splendid!”
“Isn’t it a deuced queer thing?”
“Most extraordinary. And when we told one another we never thought——.”
“How could we?”