“This letter,” said she, “is from Mr. Orange. Don't you admire his handwriting?”
“A beautiful hand, certainly.”
“I wonder what he has to say, and why he is abroad. Isn't that a foreign stamp?”
“The post-mark is Paris.”
“So it is. Will you excuse me if I read it.”
She broke the seal, and read the contents, while every vestige of colour left her face.
“I can't make it out,” she said; “there must be another letter for Brigit. Will you look?”
He untied the packet, and recognised presently Orange's handwriting on an envelope.
“You seem rather displeased,” said Pensée; “you think this is all very strange. It—it isn't a common case.”
“No case is common.”