Biffen leant back and laughed noisily.
‘How much shall you charge for the course?’ asked Reardon.
‘That’ll depend. I shan’t refuse a guinea or two; but some people may be made to pay five, perhaps.’
Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said:
‘A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.’
He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated.
‘Yes, it’s from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an exquisite hand she writes!’
He tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen averted their eyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange ejaculation from Whelpdale caused his friends to look up at him. He had gone pale, and was frowning at the sheet of paper which trembled in his hand.
‘No bad news, I hope?’ Biffen ventured to say.
Whelpdale let himself sink into a chair.