Margaret brought pen and ink; and while Mr Hope wrote down the dates in the Book Society’s list, Hester exclaimed against Mrs Grey for having sent her a letter marked “Private,” now that she was married.
“If you mean it not to be private, you shall tell me about it when I come back,” said her husband. “If I see Mrs Enderby to-night, I must be gone.”
It was not twenty minutes before he was seated by his own fireside again. His wife looked disturbed; and was so; she even forgot to inquire after Mrs Enderby.
“There is Mrs Grey’s precious letter!” said she. “She may mean to be very kind to me: I dare say she does: but she might know that it is not kindness to write so of my husband.”
“I do not see that she writes any harm of me, my dear,” said he, laying the letter open upon the table. “She only wants to manage me a little: and that is her way, you know.”
“So exceedingly impertinent!” cried Hester, turning to Margaret. “She wants me to use my influence, quietly, and without betraying her, to make my husband—,” she glanced into her husband’s face, and checked her communication. “In short,” she said, “Mrs Grey wants to be meddling between my husband and one of his patients.”
“Well, what then?” said Margaret.
“What then? Why, if she is to be interfering already in our affairs—if she is to be always fancying that she has anything to do with Edward,—and we living so near,—I shall never be able to bear it.”
And Hester’s eyes overflowed with tears.
“My dear! is it possible?” cried Edward. “Such a trifle—.”