A square of thick scented notepaper filled with a dashing black caligraphy shook before Geoffrey's eyes. It was Mrs. May's writing beyond a doubt. Geoffrey flushed slightly as he took the note.
"Read it," Vera said quietly, "read it aloud."
Geoffrey did so. It struck him now—it had never occurred to him before—that the writer was slightly caressing in her manner of phrasing. There was a suggestion of something warmer and more personal than the stereotyped lines implied.
"So this is the Alton where you are going to-night?" Vera went on. "Who is the woman? How long have you known her?"
The quick blood came flaming to Geoffrey's face. He had never seen Vera hard and cold like this before. It was a woman and not a girl who was speaking now. Geoffrey resented the questions; they came as a teacher addresses a child.
"I cannot tell you," he said. "It has to do with the family secret."
"And you expect me to believe this, Geoffrey?"
"Of course I do," Geoffrey cried. "Did you ever know me tell you a lie? And, after all the years we have been together, you are going to be jealous of the first woman who comes along! Have I been mistaken in you, Vera?"
The girl's beautiful eyes filled with tears. She had been sorely vexed and hurt, far more hurt than she cared Geoffrey to know. For it seemed to her that he had wilfully deceived her, that he was going to see this creature of whom he was secretly ashamed, that he had lied so that he could seek her company without suspicion in the minds of others.