“Thank you, Jacopo, you have been rather long.” He spoke with the idea of gaining time.
“Si, Signore, the man at the post was very stupid.”
“You are sure these are all?”
“Si, Signore, sure.”
“Thank you, wait at the end of the pier till I call you.”
Jacopo moved away; Giles, clutching the letters, looked blankly after his retreating figure. Shikari rubbed a wet nose suddenly against his hand, and then stretched his body at full length, placing his forepaws on the rail, and working his nostrils from side to side with a snuffle at the unconscious sea. Giles bit his lips, raised his hand quickly, and without glancing at the outsides tore open the letters one by one. He dropped them unread into his pocket, lifted his cap, and ran his hand through his hair.
Nothing! He took a rapid turn across the jetty and back again, followed solemnly by the dog. Nothing! He muttered to himself one or two commonplaces. “Very awkward thing! Odd! Very odd!” Words absolutely inexpressive of his feelings, but somehow comforting.
He took Shikari’s forepaws, and drew them on to his chest, put them down again, and took another turn across the jetty. He stood, and looked out on the other side, and said, “My God!” in a low voice. He drew another cigar out of his case, bit it, and put it back again.
Nothing. Nine weeks! She had ceased to write! What did it mean? Was she ill?
He called suddenly “Jacopo!”