Once more there was a silence,—a silence in which Miss Tibbutt sat stirring her coffee, and looking towards the reflection of the sunset sky seen through the branches of the trees opposite. Suddenly she spoke, dismayed apology in her voice.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I quite forgot. A letter came for you this afternoon. I put it down on the little round table in the drawing-room window, meaning to give it to you when you came in. But you went straight to your room, and so I forgot it. I will get it at once.”
“Nonsense,” said the Duchessa lightly, “I will get it. I don’t suppose for an instant that it is important.”
She got up and went across the lawn. In a minute or two she returned, an open letter in her hand.
“It’s from Trix,” she announced as she sat down again, “She wants to know if she can come down here at the beginning of August.”
Miss Tibbutt literally beamed.
“How delightful!” she exclaimed. “Trix has never stayed with you here. You will like having her.”
“Dear Trix,” said the Duchessa.
“I do so enjoy Trix,” remarked Miss Tibbutt fervently.
“So do most people,” smiled the Duchessa.