The lining of Frederic’s office coat had worn to tatters. Going over his wardrobe Annette discovered this and took the coat into Serge’s room, which she used when Serge was away at the Art School, and began to mend it. When she had repaired the lining she turned out the pockets, and among other papers—a theatre programme, two pawn-tickets, and a race-card—came on a grubby blotted letter written on cheap notepaper in a large wavering scrawl. Rather idly at first, and with no qualms or scruples—(all families read all letters that come into their hands)—she read it. There was neither address nor date. It was very short.
“DEAR FRED.—You must answer my letter, you must, you must. What am I to do? I can’t prevent mother finding out soon, and she can’t bear any more, she has had so much to bear. I can’t tell her it’s you, but it’s the thinking I can’t stand when you don’t write to me. If you could only get me away somewhere, like you said you would. I’m just the same, but I can’t write like I used to. It’s the work in the house that’s so awful, with the lodgers being beastly. Dear Fred, do please write to your
ANNIE.”
At first it conveyed nothing to Annette. She was conscious of suffering behind the words and rather stupidly fumbled about in her mind for what it was that Annie’s mother must find out soon. Abruptly she came to it and dropped the letter, and hot tears came to her eyes, tears of shame. She had never come face to face with this thing before, and it horrified her, but through the horror of it was the knowledge that Annie was wanting Frederic to write to her, and she thought that she must find Frederic at once and tell him. Then she remembered that she ought not to have read the letter, and she thrust it back into the pocket of the coat and hurried back with it into Frederic’s room. That done, she went downstairs, saying to herself:
“I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know.”
With sudden self-criticism, half humorously, she added:
“But I do know, so it isn’t any good wishing. I mustn’t tell. I mustn’t tell.”
Her heart was fluttering as she entered the drawing-room, feeling that everybody must know the secret she had discovered. She was surprised to find her mother in her usual chair nodding over her book and Minna talking in the window-seat with a young gentleman, whom she introduced as Mr. Basil Haslam.
“Mr. Haslam is a friend of Serge’s,” said Minna, “and Mr. Haslam’s brother is a great friend of Frederic’s.”
“Perhaps he knows,” thought Annette.
But no. Basil Haslam bowed politely to Annette and took no further notice of her, and went on with his conversation with Minna. Annette went away and down to her father’s study, and there she found Francis and Bennett Lawrie in earnest conclave. Did they know? They gave no sign. Francis was smoking, and tapping on the ground with his foot. Bennett was leaning forward and talking emphatically and waving his long hands rather wildly in the air.