“They were written by Sir Rupert to my mother. If you glance at one you will recognise the handwriting.”
Sir Geoffrey untied the silk riband, and took the first letter. He put on his pince-nez. As he did so, Fishpingle saw that his fingers were trembling. He took off the pince-nez and rubbed the lenses, but they were clean and clear.
“It is my father’s writing.”
“Read the beginning and the end.”
Sir Geoffrey did so. The letter fluttered from his hand. He lay back in his chair, murmuring: “His Dream Wife! His Dream Wife!” Then, as another thought came to him, he jumped up excitedly.
“My father calls your mother his ‘dream wife.’ Does that mean that he married her? Are you his lawful son—his eldest son?”
Fishpingle drew himself up.
“No. I am a Son of Sorrow.”
“My God! My God!”
“I would not have you think ill of my mother. Sir Rupert wished to marry her. It is all in those letters. I am proud of the woman to whom they were written. This is her miniature.”