At the voice of his wife he gave a nervous jump, and then instantly controlled himself and looked round. Her voice was soft, liquid, weak with slumber. But, lying calmly on one side, her head half buried in the pillow, and the bedclothes pushed back from her shoulders, she was wideawake and gazed at him steadily.
"I'm just writing a letter," he answered gruffly.
"Now? What letter?"
"Here! You shall read it." He walked straight across the room in his gay pyjamas only partly hidden by the splendid dressing-gown, and handed her the letter. Moving nothing but her hand, she took the letter and held it in front of her eyes. He sat down between the beds, on the edge of his own bed, facing her.
"Whatever is it?"
"Read it. You've got it," he said, with impatience. He was trembling, aware that the crisis had suddenly leapt at him.
"
She had read the opening phrase; she had received the first shock. But the tone of her exclamation gave no clue at all to her attitude. It might mean anything—anything. She shut her eyes; then glanced at him, terror-struck, appealing, wistful, implacable.
"Not at once?"