"No, you can't," said Edwin. "Pratt's gone by this, and it's shut up."
"No, it isn't. Pratt's there."
"All right."
"Shut the door, dear," said Hilda.
"Hooray!" George ran off and banged the glass door.
Hilda, glancing by habit at the unsightly details of the deteriorating room, walked round the desk. With apprehension Edwin saw resolve and perturbation in her face. He was about to say: "Look here, infant, I'm supposed to be busy." But he refrained.
Holding out a letter which she nervously snatched from her bag, Hilda said:
"I've just had this--by the afternoon post. Read it."
He recognised at once the sloping handwriting; but the paper was different; it was a mere torn half-sheet of very cheap notepaper. He read: "Dear Mrs. Clayhanger. Just a line to say that my husband is at last discharged. It has been weary waiting. We are together, and I am looking after him. With renewed thanks for your sympathy and help. Believe me, Sincerely yours, Charlotte M. Cannon." The signature was scarcely legible. There was no address, no date.
Edwin's first flitting despicable masculine thought was: "She doesn't say anything about that ten pounds!" It fled. He was happy in an intense relief that affected all his being. He said to himself: "Now that's over, we can begin again."