“Do,” said Mary, opening her letter. It was a long, newsy sheet written from Paris and filled with the Sparrow's opinions on continental hotels, manners, and morals. She read it listlessly, but at the fourth page suddenly sat upright.
“I thought as long as I was here I'd better see what there is
to see,” Miss Mason's pen chatted; “so I've been doing a play
or the opera every night, and I can say that not understanding
the language don't make the plays seem any less immoral.
However, that's what people go abroad to get, so I guess we
can't complain. The night before last who was sitting in the
orchestra but your husband with that queer Miss Berber? I
saw them as plain as daylight, but they couldn't see me away up
in the circle. When I was looking for a bus at the end I
saw them getting into an elegant electric. I must say she
looked cute, all in old rose color with a pearl comb in her hair.
I think your husband looked real well too—I suppose they
were going to some party together. It's about time that young
man was home again with you, it seems to me, and so I should
have told him if I could have got anywhere near him in the
crowd. All I can say is, I've had enough of Europe. I'm thinking
of going through to London for a week, and then sailing.”
At the end of the letter Mary turned the last page back, and slowly read this paragraph again. There was a dull drumming in her ears—a hand seemed to be remorselessly pressing the blood from her heart. She sat staring straight before her, afraid to think lest she should think too much. At last she went to the window.
“Wallace,” she called. He jumped in, paper in hand, and saw her standing dead white by her chair.
“Ye've no had ill news, Mary?” he asked with a burr.
She shook her head. “No, Wallace; no, of course not. But I feel rather rotten this morning. Talk to me a little, will you?”
Obediently he sat down, and shook out the paper. “Hae ye been watching the European news much lately, Mary?” he began.
“I always try to, but it's difficult to find much in the American papers.”
“It's there, if ye know where to look. What would ye think o' this assassination o' the Grand Duke now?” He cocked his head on one side, as if eagerly waiting for her opinion. She began to rally.
“Why, it's awful, of course, but somehow I can't feel much sympathy for the Austrians since they took Bosnia and Herzegovina.”