Thursday, Nov. 10th.
“Branches, Wednesday.
“Dear Miss Travers,—I regret exceedingly I was unable to come over to Tryland to-day, but hope to do so before you leave. I trust you are well, and did not catch cold on the drive.
“Yours very truly,
“Christopher Carruthers.”
This is what I get this morning! Pig!
Well, I sha’n’t be in if he does come—I can just see him pulling himself together once temptation (it makes me think of Malcolm!), is out of his way; he no doubt feels he has had an escape, as I am nobody very grand.
The letters come early here, as everywhere, but in a bag which only Mr. Montgomerie can open, and one has to wait until everyone is seated at breakfast before he produces the key, and deals them all out.
Mr. Carruthers’ was the only one for me, and it had “Branches” on the envelope, which attracted Mr. Montgomerie’s attention, and he began to “Bur-r-r-r,” and hardly gave me time to read it before he commenced to ask questions à propos of the place, to get me to say what the letter was about. He is a curious man.
“Carruthers is a capital fellow, they tell me—er—You had better ask him over quietly, Katherine, if he is all alone at Branches”—this with one eye on me in a questioning way.