Wantele did not look at her as he spoke. He was tracing an imaginary pattern on the tablecloth. The numbness induced by the horrible blow she had dealt him was beginning to give way to stinging stabs of pain. He longed to know more—to know everything—to turn as it were a jagged knife in his heart-wound.
Mrs. Maule dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then she laughed.
"No, no, Dick," she cried, "there's no such luck in store for you—I mean for us! We're going to lose Jane—once for all. Jane has taken it rather badly. I never thought that dear saint would fall in love!" She suddenly became aware that his eyes were fixed on the letter she had thrust into the bodice of her gown when walking down the long gallery upstairs. She took it out of her warm and scented bodice, and held it out to him.
"I think you'd better read what she says."
Wantele looked at the pretty hand holding Jane Oglander's letter, but he made no attempt to take the folded paper. "I should like to read it—" he said lightly, "but I think I'd better not."
"Yes, do read it, Dick. Why shouldn't you?" She added slowly, "There's something about you in it too——"
Wantele hesitated, and then he fell. He leant over and took Jane Oglander's letter from her hand. His own was shaking, and that angered him. He turned his chair right round, and holding the two sheets of grey paper up close to his eyes deliberately read them slowly through.
As at last he handed them back to her, he said quietly, "You told me a lie just now, Athena. I am not mentioned in Jane's letter."
"Indeed you are!" She pointed to a thin line of writing across the top of the second sheet.
"'I hope Dick won't mind much'—" she read aloud.