At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and the landlord, carrying a few letters on a salver, entered the room. Sara pulled down her veil—a foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. Orange thanked the man for the letters and threw them on the table. The landlord, with a studied air of discretion, which was the more insulting for its very slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out.
“Does he always bring your letters upstairs?” she asked.
“As a rule—no,” said Orange.
“Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see me—what impudence! I am beginning to realise what one has to expect if one—if one takes an unconventional step.”
Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then she covered her face with her hands.
“Every courageous—every disinterested act is unconventional,” said Robert; “you are tired out—that's all.”
“You see,” she answered, with a note of harsh sadness in her voice, “I have had a strange day. The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. I feel a kind of apprehensiveness and terror—yes, terror, which I cannot describe. It may be my nerves, it may be fancy. But I am too conscious of being alive. Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. This day has been one long over-emphasis. Look at my hand: how it trembles! Beauclerk called me a witch. Certainly, I am more sensitive to impressions than most people.”
“One of these letters is from Reckage. It is written on a sheet of your own note-paper.”
She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, astonishment, and a certain incredulity.
“Then he must have listened to me. He posted it, after all, when he left the house. He is always impulsive. I remember now—that I saw him give something to the groom. Do read what he says.”