“How do you know?” asked, contemptuously, the cook, an old soldier. “He hasn't told you, maybe?”
“Well, he did give me a hint to that effect,” the steward brazened it out.
“Get along with you! He will be coming to tell me next,” jeered the old cook, over his shoulder.
Mrs. MacWhirr glanced farther, on the alert. “. . . Do what's fair. . . Miserable objects . . . . Only three, with a broken leg each, and one . . . Thought had better keep the matter quiet . . . hope to have done the fair thing. . . .”
She let fall her hands. No: there was nothing more about coming home. Must have been merely expressing a pious wish. Mrs. MacWhirr's mind was set at ease, and a black marble clock, priced by the local jeweller at 3L. 18s. 6d., had a discreet stealthy tick.
The door flew open, and a girl in the long-legged, short-frocked period of existence, flung into the room.
A lot of colourless, rather lanky hair was scattered over her shoulders. Seeing her mother, she stood still, and directed her pale prying eyes upon the letter.
“From father,” murmured Mrs. MacWhirr. “What have you done with your ribbon?”
The girl put her hands up to her head and pouted.
“He's well,” continued Mrs. MacWhirr languidly. “At least I think so. He never says.” She had a little laugh. The girl's face expressed a wandering indifference, and Mrs. MacWhirr surveyed her with fond pride.