‘May I write to you?’ Stella said with a meaning look.
‘Yes, to tell me how you are.’
Adela had not got far from the house when she saw her husband walking towards her. She looked at him steadily.
‘I happened to be near,’ he explained, ‘and thought I might as well go home with you.’
‘I might have been gone.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t have waited long.’
The form of his reply discovered that he had no intention of calling at the house; Adela understood that he had been in Avenue Road for some time, probably had reached it very soon after her.
The next morning there arrived for Mutimer a letter from Alice. She desired to see him; her husband would be from home all day, and she would be found at any hour; her business was of importance—underlined.
Mutimer went shortly after breakfast, and Alice received him very much as she would have done in the days before the catastrophe. She had arrayed herself with special care; he found her leaning on cushions, her feet on a stool, the eternal novel on her lap. Her brother had to stifle anger at seeing her thus in appearance unaffected by the storm which had swept away his own happiness and luxuries.
‘What is it you want?’ he asked at once, without preliminary greeting.