"You should have brought Mr. Farr back to tea," she said, so unconcernedly that even Helen was deceived, and Miss Stuart was stirred with a passing feeling of admiration.
But the effort cost Jean a pang, and as she turned her eyes slowly away, there was a great coldness at her heart.
The following afternoon the girls were having tea in the drawing-room, the long French windows were pushed wide open, and the soft west wind moved the curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were drawn, for the sun shone hotly, and the half-darkened room seemed deliciously cool and refreshing, after the sultry atmosphere of the outer world.
Little Gladys danced in from the hall-way, waving a letter in the air.
"I took it away from Susie, sister," she cried, in her clear, childish treble. "I don't know who it's for."
Miss Stuart leaned forward in her chair, and caught the soft dimpled wrist in her firm white hand.
"Let me read the address for you, baby."
Gladys demurred, shaking her fluffy head, her blue eyes full of laughter, but Miss Stuart quietly possessed herself of the letter.
Her face fell as she turned toward the light and read the address. The handwriting, familiar, yet half strange, awakened a host of memories within her; but the written name was not the one she had been wont to see. She read the address aloud, with a tinge of sarcasm in her smooth voice:
"'Miss Jean Lawrence, The Manor House.' For you, Miss Jean."