In the drawing-room she cushioned him well [314] in the best easy-chair, and, sitting down on a pouf near him, began to knit like an industrious wife who understands the seriousness of war. Nothing escaped the attention of that man. He espied the telegram.
"What's that?"
"Ah!" she cried, springing up and giving it to him. "Stupid that I am! I forgot."
He looked at the address.
"How did this come here?" he asked mildly.
"Marie brought it—from the Albany."
"Oh!"
He opened the telegram and read it, having dropped the envelope into the silk-lined, gilded waste-paper basket by the fender.
"It is nothing serious?" she questioned.
"No. Business."