“It is from Claudia.”
“So you said. Well?”
There was a new peremptoriness in his tone which she recognised.
“She writes about what we talked of,” she said, with difficulty, and keeping her eyes fixed on the letter. “She—she is engaged to this Captain Fenwick. You may read the letter, if you like,” she added more quickly, holding it out to him. He did not take it, and there was a moment’s silence.
“Thank you,” he said, and no more. His voice was hoarse, and she longed to comfort him, not knowing how, and casting about for words.
“This accident—”
He interrupted her.
“It’s over and done with—we won’t talk about it. Can I do anything for you in the town?”
Anne felt with a pang that it was not as in his old boyish troubles, and that the best she could do was to stand aside, and take no notice. She went off with her letter to Philippa, who was not very sympathetic.
“I’m not sorry. Harry will meet with somebody else, somebody, I do hope, without a career. Of course he feels it at first, but he’ll get over it, oh yes, Anne, I’m hardened enough to think so. Give me the letter. What does she say?—um—um—um—‘saved my life at the risk of his own’—that’s strong—‘dreadfully hurt—getting better’—I don’t see what else she could do—‘stay on here for another week or two before going back to Elmslie.’ One thing is certain, Anne, we needn’t have had that new carpet for the bedroom.”