Eve read the letter. She leant back in her deep chair with a pensiveness, a faint suggestion of weariness bespeaking the end of a convalescence, which was perhaps climatic.
“I have never understood the Count,” she said. “There are so many people one does not understand.”
She broke off with a little laugh, half impatient.
“Yes,” said her husband quietly. “Whom are you thinking of?”
“Agatha.”
Fitz was gazing at the fine quartz gravel beneath his feet.
“Agatha cared for Luke,” he said.
A faint flicker of anxiety passed across Eve’s eyes--the mention of Luke’s name always brought it. She had never seen this twin brother--this shadow as it were of Fitz’s life--and it had been slowly borne in upon her--perhaps Henry Cyprian had taught her--that there is a tie between twins which no man can gauge nor tell whither it may lead.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I know.”
“How do you know? Did she tell you?”