"What do you want?" he snapped at the man.
"Miss Frenton dropped her handkerchief, sir," answered Morrison, impassively.
The other grunted.
"All right. Get on with your work."
Marjorie hesitated no longer. With a sort of blinding certainty there flashed into her mind the conviction that something was wrong. She didn't stop to analyse her thoughts: she merely felt convinced that John Morrison was not an insubordinate swine, and that in the note she held in her hand lay the clue to a great deal that was puzzling her at the moment. And so with a gracious smile at the man she slipped her handkerchief into her bag....
It was ten minutes before she found an opportunity of reading the note. It was in pencil, and the handwriting was small and neat.
"It is immaterial to me what action you take on receiving this," it ran. "But if you are in any way interested in your fiancé's future, I most strongly advise you to suggest a change of air to him. Of his capabilities as a husband you must decide for yourself: of his capabilities as the boss of Frenton's, other people have already decided, as possibly you may have noticed this morning. So get him away, and keep him away. You haven't got much time."
"Get him away, and keep him away." The words danced before the girl's eyes. She was conscious of no anger against John Morrison: merely of a stunned surprise. The thing was so totally unexpected. "Of his capabilities as the boss of Frenton's, other people have already decided." And even as she read and re-read the sentence, she found that she was actually asking herself the question—"Was it so totally unexpected after all?" That matters should have come to a head in such an abrupt way was a staggering shock: but ... She crumpled the note into her bag once more, and walked slowly towards the waiting cars. A hundred little half-defined thoughts came crowding in on her memory: a hundred little things which had not struck her at the time—or was it that she hadn't allowed them to strike her?—now arrayed themselves in massed formation in front of her.
She paused with her foot on the step of the car. The Honourable Herbert was solicitously bending over a stout and boring aunt of hers, and she watched him dispassionately. "Of his capabilities as a husband you must decide for yourself." Impertinent.... And yet she was not conscious of any resentment.
"Come up to lunch, Herbert," she said, as he stepped over to her. "I want to talk to you afterwards."