“Was that a business letter?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes, why?”
“It looked so awfully unbusinesslike. The sealing-wax and the funny writing—much more like a woman’s than a man’s.”
He laughed. He folded the letter, put it in his pocket and picked up the envelope. “Yes,” he said, “it is queer, isn’t it. I shouldn’t have noticed. How quick you are! But it does look exactly like a woman’s hand. The capital R, for instance”—he flipped the envelope across to her.
“Yes, and that squiggle underneath. I should have said a rather uneducated female....”
“As a matter of fact,” said Hugh, “he’s a mining engineer.” And he got up, began to stretch and then stopped. “I say, what a glorious morning! Why do I have to go to the office instead of staying at home and playing with you?” And he came over to her and locked his arms round her neck. “Tell me that, little lovely one.”
“Oh,” she leaned against him, “I wish you could. Life’s arranged badly for people like you and me. And now you’re going to be late this evening.”
“Never mind,” said he. “All the rest of the time’s ours. Every single bit of it. We shan’t come back from the theatre to find——”
“Our porch black with mining engineers.” She laughed. Did other people—could other people—was it possible that any one before had ever loved as they loved? She squeezed her head against him—she heard his watch ticking—precious watch!
“What are those purple floppy flowers in my bedroom?” he murmured.