Edith sat down.
"No, the car has not come round yet," she said. "It will be here in a minute. We shall pass the post-office; I will post your letter for you."
Elizabeth turned farther round in her chair, but her hand still lay on the closed blotting-book.
"Oh, I was only just beginning a scribble to father!" she said. "It will not be ready."
Edith considered the days of the week; but she felt that she knew it was not to her father that Elizabeth was writing.
"It will just catch the mail if I post it for you," she said. "Otherwise it will have to wait another week."
"Then it must wait another week," said Elizabeth.
Jealous people never themselves feel the wantonness and cruelty of their unconfirmed suspicions; they only know that these are not suspicions at all, but certainties.
"I noticed that you had a letter from Edward again this morning," she said.
Elizabeth slightly shifted the blotting-book, and Edith registered the fact—for so it seemed to her—that the letter was lying there.