"What the dickens is Judith waiting for, Roger?" he demanded one evening, after a particularly unsatisfactory dinner, at which she had made no effort even to appear attentive. But Roger could only shake his head and wonder too ... and in two minutes forget everything in the world save Molly Wolcott.
The end came one morning, when he and Judith were at breakfast. He was aroused from his newspaper by a whispered "at last" from his sister. Her colour was strangely high, and her eyes sparkled. She was opening a letter. He watched her closely, wondering what had happened.
Suddenly her face blanched, and her hand went to her throat in a gesture which recalled to him the day he had apprised her of Good's resignation. A faint little cry escaped her lips. For a moment she laid down the letter and closed her eyes. Then she picked it up again, and read it, apparently, to the end.
"What's the news?" he asked, willing no longer to let her inexplicable demeanour go unprobed.
"It's a letter from Good," she said mechanically.
"What's he say?"
"He says he's been ill. That's why he hasn't been to see us. He'll come as soon as he's about."
"I see." Roger's tone was lofty. His disgust was profound if unspoken. He was offended by her manifest reluctance to confide in him, and he did not scruple to show the fact. Although consumed with curiosity to know what Good actually had written—and, indeed, why he had written at all—he was too proud to question her. With a muttered grunt, expressive of anything which one might choose to read into it, he buried himself anew in his paper, and presently, without again referring to the subject, left the table. His manner, meant to show a consciousness of injury, and at the same time, readiness for conciliation, produced no apparent effect. It is doubtful if Judith was aware of his departure. He left, therefore, with his chagrin redoubled, full of suspicion, and utterly bewildered at the tortuous mental processes of all women, and his sister in particular.
Judith was still immersed in the letter. Its bold, uneven scrawl was familiar, but with an indefinable touch of weakness, never before apparent. The paper was of the cheapest, a trifle soiled, and torn in several places. It had been written with a soft pencil, it began, characteristically, without salutation.