‘No! no! it can’t be,’ cried Phœbe. ‘I’ll clear it up in a moment.’
But as she glanced at the letter the colour fled from her cheek.
‘Well, what is it?’ said Mervyn, impatiently.
‘Oh, Mervyn!’ and she put her hands before her face.
‘Come, the fewer words the better. Out with it at once!’
‘Mervyn! It is to Bertha!’ She stood transfixed.
‘What?’ cried Mervyn.
‘To Bertha,’ repeated Phœbe, looking as if she could never shut her eyes.
‘Bertha? What, a billet-doux; the little precocious pussycat!’ and he laughed, to Phœbe’s increased horror.
‘If it could only be a mistake!’ said she; ‘but here is her name! It is not German, only English in German writing. Oh, Bertha! Bertha!’