"You don't mean to tell me that Guy——" said Myra, heedless of the suggestion. She could not utter the words which would have voiced her fear that Guy had already given his love to another.
"I tell you that there is a chit of a girl in the country who, if she knew as much as you do, would have taken Guy from us long ago. Fortunately she is a fool, or Guy would be lost; as it is, Myra, your chance has not yet passed."
She hoped not, and though she doubted, Hora's confidence reassured her.
That same afternoon, as they passed a stationer's shop, with a window full of photographs of actresses, Hora paused and directed her attention to the portrait of a flagrantly décolleté woman.
"You have a finer figure than that woman," he remarked.
Myra blushed, and they passed on without another word. Later on Myra returned to the shop alone and obtained the photograph.
After dinner she let fall an observation that her wardrobe needed replenishing. Hora grumbled, but she teased him into giving her a cheque. His face was perfectly grave. Next day she sent the photograph and the cheque, accompanied by a long letter of instructions, to Madame Gabrielle, her London dressmaker. Three days later Madame Gabrielle arrived in Scarborough and Myra gave the whole morning to the tedious business of fitting. Hora asked no questions.
The day came for their return to town. Myra was feverishly anxious to be off, fearful lest Guy should be back before them, fearful lest he should not come back at all. He had not written once, either to her or to Hora during the whole fortnight. Hora did his best to mitigate her obvious anxiety.
"No doubt we shall find a letter waiting for us on our return," he said.
His surmise proved correct. The letter which Jessel had posted for Guy that same morning at Whitsea was lying on the table in the entrance hall. Myra seized it eagerly. Her colour came and went as Hora opened it deliberately.