The writing was Posy's.
Quinney stared at it, palsied with amazement. Then he read it, and re-read it, till the full meaning of what it meant had percolated through and through his mind. His cigar went out. He sat at his desk with the letter in his hand, dazed for the moment, breathing hard, very red in the face. The fingers which held the sheet of notepaper twitched. He noticed a faint fragrance of lavender, a perfume much affected by Posy, and he remembered vividly a certain afternoon, long ago, when Susan had sat in the garden of the Dream Cottage filling small muslin bags with lavender to place between the baby linen of their tiny daughter.
Slowly, a dull anger and rancour grew in him. What did this shameless baggage mean by deceiving him and Susan? He included Susan. Physically he was overwhelmed, eviscerated, almost faint with impotent rage, but he found himself wondering what Susan would say. Suppose—his heart grew cold—suppose she knew! What! His faithful wife a party to this abominable fraud on him? Impossible!
He rose up wearily, and walked with unsteady steps to the door.
"Susan!" he cried querulously.
Posy appeared, wreathed in smiles. With a terrific effort her father smiled frozenly at her.
"Send your mother to me!" he said stiffly. "I want to see her at once on a small matter of business."
"Right O!" replied Posy.
He returned to his desk. When Susan, came in she perceived at once the change in him.
"Gracious, Joe, is this house afire?"