Mr. Homer cast a glance of aversion at the green envelope; it certainly was somewhat vivid in tint, and was rather liberally than delicately scented.
"I should be glad if you would do so, William," he said. "I seem to feel—a—less vigorous than when you first came in. I should be obliged if you would look it over, William."
With a glance wherein compassion struggled with amusement, Jaquith opened the letter and glanced through it.
"From Mrs. Pryor," he said, briefly.
Mr. Homer moved uneasily in his seat. "I—a—apprehended as much," he said. "Go on, William."
With another compassionate twinkle, Will complied, and read as follows:
"'My dearest Homer:'"
Mr. Homer winced, and wiped his forehead nervously.
"'Ever since that dreadful day which I will not name, I have been prostrated with grief and mortification; grief on my own account; mortification—I blush to say it—for the sake of one whose present condition seals my lips. Need I say that I allude to Aunt Marcia? For some time I felt that all relations between me and Elmerton must be closed forever.'"
Mr. Homer looked up.