Gravely, now, and with no inclination to let his lips twist contemptuously, John sat down beside her, drawing his chair in front of the small table, and waiting patiently while she settled herself.
“It was impossible to talk at table,” she said nervously, and with a slight tremor in her voice.
“Yes—with all those people,” assented John.
A short silence followed. Katharine seemed to be choosing her words. She looked calm enough, he thought, and he expected that she would begin to make a deliberate explanation. All at once she put out her hand spasmodically, drew it back again, and began to turn over and handle a tiny fish of Norwegian silver which lay among the other things on the table.
“It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding—I don’t know where to begin,” she said, rather helplessly.
“Tell me what became of my letter,” answered John, quietly. “That’s the important thing for me to know.”
“Yes—of course—well, in the first place, it was put into papa’s hands this morning just as he was going down town.”
“Did he keep it?” asked Ralston, his anger rising suddenly in his eyes.
“No—that is—he didn’t mean to. He thought I was asleep—you see he had read those things in the papers, and was angry and recognized your handwriting—and he thought—you know the handwriting really was rather shaky, Jack.”
“I’ve no doubt. It wasn’t easy to write at all, just then.”