He received his letters next morning as usual. His man dumped them down on his bed, and said it was half-past eight. And, as usual, Hugh said, “Oh, rot!” and felt for them. There happened to be only one, rather fat, and in his lazy morning manner he looked at the address before opening it. There it was, “For my dear Hugh on his birthday, with her best wishes. To be taken immediately.”
He tore open the envelope, which she had sealed with ingenious completeness, still not guessing. And then he saw the neat little green cover.
The servant was pouring out his bath.
“Oh, just leave it,” said Hugh, “and ask Mrs. Grainger’s maid to ask if I can see her a moment.”
This was ungrammatical, but intelligible. Edith’s plan had had only one defect, and that on the safe side. She had thought that he would think it over. But he only thought, and that instantaneously, of the good-night talk. And here was her present.
He put on a big fur coat that did duty as a dressinggown and went to her room.
Her breakfast was already come, and she was sitting up in bed, bright-eyed, refreshed with sleep.
“Oh, Hughie, how nice of you to come to see me early on your birthday!” she said.
“You wicked woman!” said Hugh.
“Why, for instance?”