She asked whether the letter had reached Hugh.
“How should it? He left England immediately after my telegram, and there has been no time.”
Mrs Martyn looked out at the fjord, but Wareham saw her shoulders shaking. Tragedy was uppermost with him, and at this proof of heartlessness he thought appreciatively of Millie’s padded glass. She turned round, however, demurely composed.
“Won’t it be a little inconvenient, by and by?”
He gazed loftily over her head.
“I don’t know that we are immediately concerned with my letter. That, at any rate, cannot be accused of bringing Hugh.”
“I wish something would take him away again. I had not the smallest intention of being mixed up with one of Anne’s complicated affairs,” cried Mrs Martyn.
The speech jarred.
“If his presence is disagreeable to Miss Dalrymple, she can certainly send him off. He will have had his explanation. Perhaps it will prove the shortest way out of the difficulty.”
This laid him open to an embarrassing question, “What difficulty?” Fortunately for Wareham, she did not wait for an answer before putting another. “Are you a writer of books?”