He managed to squeeze out another groan.
"Perhaps he'd better have some more tea," said Aunt Phœbe. "What is it?" to a maid who had entered.
"Letter for the master, ma'am."
"Another blue envelope," said Aunt Phœbe, taking the letter.
George looked up and stifled a curse. "Don't open it," he said. "I know what it is."
What could it be but the third and final legacy? He burst into a profuse perspiration, and smothered his wrath in the cushions of the sofa.
"Is oo better now, dearie?" asked his wife.
George raised himself into a sitting position. "It's gone off a bit," he said. "I think I'll go out and walk it off." A new idea had come into his head, and he wanted solitude to think it over.
"I shouldn't go out, dearie," advised Mrs. Early, anxiously. "Your poor head might get bad again."
George kissed her and summoned up a feeble smile.