Cheviot did not wonder that Mar would rather not return to face that particular look in the polished onyx eyes. “I don’t know,”—he hesitated—“that there’s very much to show—as yet.”
“It oughtn’t to surprise anybody.” The lady turned the highly polished stones in her head with an added glitter.
“When is he coming home?” asked Hildegarde, with a pitiful lip.
“Perhaps next summer.”
“Perhaps!” echoed the girl.
Even Mrs. Mar stopped crocheting a moment. “Hush, Hildegarde. Let him tell us.” But she must not be supposed to be over-anxious. “Have you just come? Have you had anything to eat?”
“Oh, thank you—in the train. First of all, I must give you the letters he’s sent.” He handed one to Mrs. Mar, and one to Hildegarde. Another he laid on the table under the lamp. It was addressed to Messrs. Trennor and Harry Mar. Mother and daughter hurriedly read and exchanged letters.
“Well, Miss Bella, how’s the world treating you?” and Cheviot talked on in his old half-ironic fashion to the pale girl putting away a heap of tangled silver thread in a work-box.
Mrs. Mar’s eye, grown even harder and brighter in the last moments, fell upon the envelop under the lamp. She did not scruple to tear it open. But there was little enlightenment even in the epistle to “the boys.”