“Oh!” She did not blush; but a faint rose tinged the pallor of her cheeks. “Is it?”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Beatrice said: “But weren’t you expecting me?”
“Expecting you! Why, I don’t even know your name. But that’s just like Francis—I mean like he is now—never tells anybody anything.”
The train rattled through Slough Station.
“Mr. Gordon doesn’t even know I’m in England. It was Mrs. Jameson who wrote to me; and I cabled her ten days ago; they wouldn’t let me cable the port of arrival or the sailing-date.”
“Pat wrote to you!” Incredulity drove Peter’s voice up into his head.
“Yes. I—I thought she’d have told you. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have said anything about it. And I sent her a telegram from the boat as soon as we got in.”
“Well,” said Peter, “I don’t know about the telegram. That may have come some time today. But we’ve had no cable delivered. It couldn’t have come without my knowing it. Besides—”
Arrival at Maidenhead Junction interrupted further conversation.