Mr Beveridge composed his face, and heaving his shoulders to his ears in the effort, gave vent to a prodigious sigh.
“A million thanks, my fairest and kindest of friends,” he answered in the same tone. “I read it now: I drink it in, I——”
He kissed the back of his hand loudly two or three times, sighed again, and continued his reading.
“I wish I could help you,” it ran, “but I am afraid I cannot, as the world is so censorious, is it not? So you must accept a friend’s sympathy if it does not seem to you too bold and forward of her!!! Perhaps we may meet again, as I sometimes go to Clankwood. Au revoir.—Your sympathetic well-wisher. A. à. F.”
He folded it up and put it in his waistcoat-pocket, then he exclaimed in an audible aside, his voice shaking with the most affecting thrill, “Perhaps we may meet again! Only perhaps! O Alicia!” And then dropping again into a stage whisper, he asked, “Are you still there, Lady Alicia?”
A timorous voice replied, “Yes, Mr Fortescue. But I really must go now!”
“Now? So soon?”
“I have stayed too long already.”
“’Tis better to have stayed too long than never to wear stays at all,” replied Mr Beveridge.
There was no response for a moment. Then a low voice, a little hurt and a good deal puzzled, asked with evident hesitation, “What—what did you say, Mr Fortescue?”