"No, I don't think so. It's too hot."
"Then I presume M. Bertrand will?"
Chris flushed a little. "I don't suppose so. He is feeling the heat too."
She stretched up her hands above her head. "How I wish it would rain!"
Aunt Philippa continued her knitting severely in silence. They were sitting on the terrace awaiting the luncheon-hour. Across the garden came Noel's shrill whistle, and instinctively, before she remembered her aunt's presence, Chris answered it. The boy appeared at the farther end of the long lawn, and came racing towards them.
"Just seen the postman, Chris. Here's a letter for you—such a horrible fist, Sandacre post-mark, and sealed. Wonder who it's from?"
He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the envelope he held with frank interest.
Chris stretched up her hand for it. "I expect it's from Mrs. Pouncefort."
"Mrs. Pouncefort doesn't write like that!" protested Noel. "No woman could."
"May I have it?" said Chris.
He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chair. "Be quick and open it, I say! It looks important."