And the instant he glanced from the pretty feminine envelope to the professor's face Arbuthnot recognized the fact that something altogether unexpected had occurred again.
As he had looked from the envelope to the professor, so the professor looked from the envelope to him. Then he picked the letter up and returned it.
"It is a letter," Arbuthnot began,—"a letter"—and paused ignominiously.
"Yes," said the professor, as if he had lost something of his own gentle self-possession. "I see it is a letter."
It was not a happy remark, nor did Arbuthnot feel his own next effort a particularly successful one.
"It is a letter from Mrs. Amory," he said. "She is kind enough to write to me occasionally."
"Yes," responded the professor. "I saw that it was from Bertha. Her hand is easily recognized."
"It is an unusual hand," said Arbuthnot. "And her letters are very like herself. When it occurs to her to remember me—which doesn't happen as frequently as I could wish—I consider myself fortunate. She writes as she talks, and very few people do that."
He ended with a greater degree of composure than he had begun with, but to his surprise he felt that his pulses had quickened, and that there had risen to his face a touch of warmth suggestive of some increase of color, and he did not enjoy the sensation. He began to open the letter.
"Shall I"—he said, and then suddenly stopped.