She watched Ocky’s face and saw how it faltered; then he hid the expression behind a mask of cynicism.
“If you won’t read it to me, let me read it myself.”
He crumpled it into his pocket hurriedly, as though he feared that she would snatch it from him. When all was safe, he turned toward the mantel-shelf, hunting for a match.
“Why did you do that?”
“It was addressed to me, wasn’t it? Barrington don’t let his wife read his letters, I’ll bet. Neither do I; I’m not a lawyer’s clerk in an office any longer—I’m going to be a big man.”
“But what did he say?”
Forced to answer, Ocky became reproachful. “Duchess, you’re suspecting me again—you remember what you promised the other night. He says he wants to see me—thinks there may be something in my plan. Daresay, he’ll offer to put money into it. You may bet, this little boy won’t let him. Of course on the surface he advises caution.”
“If that’s all, why can’t you let me read his letter?”
“Because if I did, I’d be acting as though you didn’t trust me. You could have read it with pleasure, if you hadn’t made such a fuss.”
Jehane knew his weak obstinacy of old and gave up the contest. “You won’t see him, of course—unless he comes to the house.”