“You look exactly as you used at school, Agatha. I could almost fancy us back again in Number Six.”
Agatha shook her head.
“Do I ever look like that—like myself, as I used to be?”
“Never,” said Agatha emphatically, turning and surveying the figure of which Miss Carpenter had been the unripe antecedent.
“But why?” said Jane querulously. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I am not so changed.”
“You have become an exceedingly fine woman, Jane,” said Agatha gravely, and then, without knowing why, turned her attentive gaze upon Sir Charles, who bore it uneasily, and left the room. A minute later he returned with two buff envelopes in his hand.
“A telegram for you, Miss Wylie, and one for Chester.” Erskine started up, white with vague fears. Agatha’s color went, and came again with increased richness as she read:
“I have arrived safe and ridiculously happy. Read a thousand things between the lines. I will write tomorrow. Good night.”
“You may read it,” said Agatha, handing it to Jane.
“Very pretty,” said Jane. “A shilling’s worth of attention—exactly twenty words! He may well call himself an economist.”