“There’s nothing to be jealous about,” said Nouna lightly, but beginning to tremble as she saw that, in spite of the playfulness of his tone, he did not mean to let her go till his curiosity was satisfied. “I haven’t even opened it yet.”
“Open it now then, and tell me the news.”
He spoke quite gently, and leaned back in the arm-chair they were sitting on, leaving her perched upon his knees in what she might have imagined was liberty, if there had not been, to her sharp eyes, a leonine look of possession and passive power in the strong white hands that lay quietly on the arms of the chair on each side of her. These Eastern women have a subtle sense, transmitted to them from bow-stringing times, of what is best to do in a case of jealousy. George saw the quick glance round under lowered eyelids, and while fearing some impish indiscretion, yet with a little smart of rage admired her self-possession as she crossed her knees carelessly and drew forth her letter from her breast, after affecting to feel in her pocket, as if forgetful where she had put it. As she inserted a small forefinger under the flap of the envelope, George held himself on the alert to seize the little hands if they should make any attempt to destroy the missive. But the first glance at the note apparently relieved her, and she flourished it before him to show that he had made a fuss about nothing.
“It is only a note from Captain Pascoe to tell me his address, because he is so anxious to come again to our little suppers,” said she, making a ball of the note, tossing it dexterously, catching it in her hand, and posting it between her husband’s lips, opened for a little lecture.
“Has he written to you before?” asked George frowning.
“No; if he had I should have known the handwriting,” answered she carelessly, but in the meantime by a clever little movement causing the injured note to roll from its lodging-place under George’s chin on to the floor. “And now please may I go and change my shoes?”
“Certainly.”
George let her go, and, all his senses being still awake to observation, remarked that in searching for a dropped glove she made a long sweep, and picked up the note from under his chair. His hand closed over hers, which she immediately opened with a red flush. He unrolled the crumpled ball of paper and read:
“Grand Hotel, Scarborough.
“Dear Mrs. Lauriston,
“Thames Lawn, Richmond. I hope you and your husband won’t forget me when you resume your charming evenings. There’s nothing like them in town or out of it. I am constrained to beg to be remembered, for I know you have all the world at your feet, and I am but a humble unit. Always, as you know, very much at your service if I can ever be of use to you in any way,
“With kind regards, yours very truly,
“Arthur Pascoe.”
“This is an answer, I see,” said George when he had read to the end. “So you have been writing to Captain Pascoe.”