She opened the door, and they went upstairs together. In the bedroom Cecily found her little boy sleeping quietly; she bent above him for a few moments, and with soft fingers smoothed the coverlet.
There was no further conversation between them—except that Cecily just mentioned the news her aunt had received from Mrs. Spence.
At breakfast they spoke of the usual subjects, in the usual way. Elgar had his ride, amused himself in the library till luncheon, lolled about the drawing-room whilst Cecily played, went to his club, came back to dinner,—all in customary order. Neither look nor word, from him or Cecily, made allusion to last night's incident.
The next morning, when breakfast was over, he came behind his wife's chair and pointed to an envelope she had opened.
"What strange writing! Whose is it?"
"From Mrs. Travis."
He moved away, and Cecily rose. As she was passing him, he said:
"What has she to say to you?"
"She acknowledges the letter I sent her yesterday morning, that's all."
"You wrote—in the way you proposed?"