Lily sat silent, frowning. Presently she jumped up, and the sudden activity of movement brought home to Sylvia more than anything else the change in her.
“If you promise not to laugh, here are his letters,” Lily said, flinging into Sylvia’s lap a bundle tied up with ribbon.
“Letters!” Sylvia snapped. “Who cares about letters? The love-letters of a successful lover have no value. When he has something to write that he cannot say to your face, then I’ll read his letter. All public blandishments shock me.”
Hector was called away from Paris to go and stay with his mother at Aix-les-Bains; for a fortnight two letters arrived every day.
“The snow in Savoy will melt early this year,” Sylvia mocked. “It’s lucky he’s not staying at St.-Moritz. Winter sports could never survive such a furnace.”
Then followed a week’s silence.
“The Alpine Club must have protested,” Sylvia mocked. “Avalanches are not expected in March.”
“He’s probably motoring with his mother,” Lily explained.
The next day a letter arrived from Hector.
HOTEL SUPERBE,
AIX-LES-BAINS.