It was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. She finished her sandwich and glass of sherry, swallowing a little lump in her throat at the same time. Then she spoke.
“Aunt Lilla,” she said impulsively, “I want to go down to Woodleigh.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up.
“Woodleigh, dearest. You were there only a little time ago, weren’t you?”
“It was in August,” said Trix. “And, anyhow, I want to go again. You don’t mind, do you?”
Mrs. Arbuthnot took another sandwich.
“That’s the fifth,” she said. “Disgraceful, but all the fault of Bridge. Why, of course not, if you want to go. But what made you think of it to-night?”
Trix leant back in her chair. “I had a letter from Miss Tibbutt,” she said.
Mrs. Arbuthnot laid down her sandwich. She regarded Trix with anxious and almost reproachful eyes.
“Oh, my dearest, nothing wrong I hope? So inconsiderate of me to talk of Bridge. I saw a letter in your hand, but no black edge. Unless there is a black edge, one does not readily imagine bad news. Not like telegrams. They send my heart to my mouth, and generally nothing but a Bridge postponement. So trivial. But it is the colour of the envelope, and the possibility. Ill news flies apace, and telegrams the quickest mode of communicating it. Except the telephone. And that is expensive at any distance.” Mrs. Arbuthnot paused, and took up her sandwich once more.