“Oh, it was pleasant enough. Sophy will tell you that it was delightful. I leave her to expatiate upon the people and the dishes and the talk. I was not in a very pleasant mood. There is a letter for you on the mantelpiece. You have not seen it, perhaps?”
“No,” he said, startled by the angry agitation in her tone. “Is there anything particular about the letter?”
He put down his pipe and stood up, looking at her inquiringly. She was very pale, always with the exception of that hectic spot which Sefton had noticed, and which burned more fiercely now.
He stretched out his hand to take the letter, half hidden by a little bronze Buddha with malevolent onyx eyes.
He recognized Lisa’s unformed scrawl at the first glance.
“What is the matter with the letter?” he asked coldly.
“She brought it here herself, Jack,—that Italian woman—Signora Vivanti. I was coming downstairs while she was at the door. I saw her give the letter to James. What can she have to write to you about? Why should she bring the letter with her own hand? How could she dare come to the house where your wife lives?” She flamed up at the last question, and her voice trembled at the word wife.
“I don’t see why my wife’s presence should alarm her, if she had need of immediate help from me.”
“What should she want? Why should she come to you for help? Because you helped her once, in Italy, when she was poor and friendless? Is that a reason why she should pester you now?”
“If you will let me read her letter I may be able to tell you,” he answered gravely.