“What is the matter with you three men?” Olivia asked. “You were fighting.”
“Pilly gets so excited,” Stukeley said.
“What were you doing, Tom?”
“Reading the letter,” Perrin said.
“What is in the letter?”
“There it is,” said Margaret.
Olivia walked softly to her husband. “May I see the letter?” she said, her eyes full of tears. “I may read the letter, Charles?”
“Yes. I wish you to read it.”
“There it is,” said Stukeley, handing it to her. “What did you two asses make such a fuss for?” He sat down, helped himself to wine, and lighted a roll of tobacco-leaf, a kind of primitive cigar. Between the puffs, he glanced at the two men, and at Olivia’s face. Something in Olivia’s face attracted him: the eyes seemed to burn; the eyes seemed to be her intelligence, now starting outward. He looked at Margaret, wondering if he had done rightly to give the letter; but Margaret stood there, grave, courteous, self-controlled, his face a mask. Olivia read the letter, turned the sheet to see if a postscript had been added, then read it through a second time, turning very white.
“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Have you read this, Tom?”