He folded the confession, and put it in his pocket. It was—thank heaven!—Saturday; he had till Sunday evening to think it over; for even if posted now it could not reach Jon till Monday. He felt a curious relief at this delay, and at the fact that, whether sent or not, it was written.
In the rose garden, which had taken the place of the old fernery, he could see Irene snipping and pruning, with a little basket on her arm. She was never idle, it seemed to him, and he envied her now that he himself was idle nearly all his time. He went down to her. She held up a stained glove and smiled. A piece of lace tied under her chin concealed her hair, and her oval face with its still dark brows looked very young.
"The green fly are awful this year, and yet it's cold. You look tired, Jolyon."
Jolyon took the confession from his pocket. "I've been writing this. I think you ought to see it."
"To Jon?" Her whole face had changed, in that instant, becoming almost haggard.
"Yes; the murder's out."
He gave it her, and walked away among the roses. Presently, seeing that she had finished reading and was standing quite still with the sheets of the letter against her skirt, he came back to her.
"Well?"
"It's wonderfully put. I don't see how it could be put better. Thank you, dear."
"Is there anything you would like left out?"