Violet’s last letter from home had announced that Mr. Fanshawe had come to stay with Mr. Jones, and she was watching eagerly for the next news. She went down-stairs quickly, in the morning, to seek for her own letters among the array spread on the sideboard.
Percy was alone in the room, standing by the window. He started at her entrance, and hardly gave time for a good morning, before he asked where Theodora was.
‘I think she is not come in. I have not seen her.’
He made a step to the door as if to go and meet her.
‘There is nothing wrong, I hope.’
‘I hope not! I hope there is no mistake. Look here.’
He held up, with an agitated grasp, a long envelope with the mighty words, ‘On her Majesty’s service;’ and before Violet’s eyes he laid a letter offering him a diplomatic appointment in Italy.
‘The very thing above all others I would have chosen. Capital salary! Excellent house! I was staying there a week with the fellow who had it before. A garden of gardens. Orange walks,—fountains,—a view of the Apennines and Mediterranean at once. It is perfection. But what can have led any one to pitch upon me?’
Arthur had come down in the midst, and leant over his rejoicing wife to read the letter, while Percy vehemently shook his hand, exclaiming, ‘There! See! There’s the good time come! Did you ever see the like, Arthur! But how on earth could they have chosen me? I know nothing of this man—he knows nothing of me.’
‘Such compliments to your abilities and classical discoveries,’ said Violet.