Hetzel went on: “I’ve noticed lately, there’s been something wrong with you. You’re nervous, restless, out of kilter. Is there a woman in the case? Is your feeling for our neighbor something more than a passing fancy? Are you taking her seriously? Or, are you simply run down-+-in need of rest and change? Why not make a trip up to Oldbridge, and see your mother?”
By the time Hetzel had finished speaking, Arthur had folded his letter and stowed it away in his pocket.
“Eh? What were you saying?” he inquired, with a blank look.
“Oh, I was saying that breakfast is getting cold; coffee spoiling, biscuit drying up—whatever you choose. Letter from home?”
“Home? No; not from home,” said Arthur.
“Well, draw up, anyhow. Is—is—By Jove, what is the matter with you? Where are you now? Why don’t you pay attention when I speak? What has come over you the last week or two? You’re worrying me to death. Out with it! No secrets from the head of the house.”
“I have no secrets,” Arthur answered, meekly; “only—only, if you must know it, I’m—” No doubt he was on the point of making a full confession. He restrained himself, however; added, “There! I won’t talk about it;” applied himself to his knife and fork, and preserved a dismal silence till the end of the meal. He went away as soon as ordinary courtesy would warrant.
No sooner had he closed the door behind him, than his hand made a dive into his pocket, and brought out Mrs. Lehmyl’s letter. He read it through for perhaps the twentieth time. It ran thus:
“46 Beekman Place,
“Thursday evening.