“You have not told me what she wrote to you,” said Sewell to his wife, as he smoked his cigar at one side of the fire while she read a novel at the other. It was to be their last evening at the Nest; on the morrow they were to leave it for the Priory. “Were there any secrets in it, or were there allusions that I ought not to see?”
“Not that I remember,” said she, carelessly.
“What about our coming? Does the old man seem to wish for it?—how does she herself take it?”
“She says nothing on the subject, beyond her regret at not being there to meet us.”
“And why can't she?—where will she be?”
“At sea, probably, by that time. She goes off to Sardinia to her brother.”
“What! do you mean to that fellow who is living with Fossbrooke? Why did n't you tell me this before?”
“I don't think I remembered it; or, if I did, it's possible I thought it could not have much interest for you.”
“Indeed, Madam! do you imagine that the only things I care for are the movements of your admirers? Where 's this letter? I 'd like to see it.”
“I tore it up. She begged me to do so when I had read it.”