But when they got home and found that Sundran had not arrived, George decided that he would wait one hour, filling up the time with a visit to the parish church; and then, if she still failed to appear, he would call at 36, Mary Street, where he suspected her to be, on his way to Liverpool Street station. He intended to return to Willingham that night, and get through the interview with the Colonel. A packet of letters was handed to him, in which he found one for his wife. Seeing that the handwriting was masculine and unknown to him, George turned it over jealously.
“Who is this from, Nouna?” he asked, holding it over her head, high above her reach.
A red flood ran at once under the delicate brown skin.
“How can I tell if you hold it all that way off?” she asked, making a futile spring to reach it.
She was much excited, but by what emotion he could not tell.
“Well, now,” and he held it near to her face, guarding it with both hands from the expected clutch.
There was enough subdued interest in her manner to make him determined to know the contents of the letter, but not wishing to give himself the airs of a Bluebeard, he drew her on to his knee and gave it to her, at the same time opening one of his own. As he read his he saw that she slipped hers without opening it into some hiding-place among the folds of her dress; at first he made no remark upon this, but went on with his own letters until he had come to the end of the pile by throwing a couple of circulars into the fireplace. At this point she tried to get away; she wanted to take her hat off, she said.
“Well, that’s soon done,” said George laughing, tossing off her little grey cap and passing his fingers through her curls. “And now who is your letter from?”
“Oh, it’s only from an old schoolfellow.”
“A schoolfellow! A male schoolfellow! I must see it then; I’m jealous.”