"There now!" said her brother with an air of comical consternation. "I've got a head like a sieve. Two came by the last mail. I didn't forward them, because I was coming myself."
"You don't mean to tell me you've forgotten them!"
"No; here they are."
Nora took them with a show of eagerness. "They don't look very exciting," she said, glancing at them. "One's from Agnes Pringle, the lady's companion that I used to know at Tunbridge Wells, you remember. And the other's from Mr. Wynne."
"Who's he?"
"Oh, he was Miss Wickham's solicitor. He wrote to me once before to say he hoped I was getting on all right. I don't think I want to hear from people in England any more," she said in a low voice, more to herself than to him, tossing the letters on the table.
"My dear, why do you say that?"
"It's no good thinking of the past, is it?"
"Aren't you going to read your letters?"
"Not now; I'll read them when I'm alone."