"Oh! It is Mr. Devereaux's writing," cried Roma excitedly.
"So I thought, miss. Now I wonder what he wrote to her about? I must be mistaken thinking he knew she had gone to Boston," cried Dolly.
Roma turned the letter over and over in her hand, her eyes blazing, her cheeks crimson, her heart throbbing with jealous rage.
How dared he write to Liane? How dared he forget her, Roma, so insolently, and so soon? She would have liked to see them both stretched dead at her feet!
They looked guiltily at each other, the mistress and maid, one thought in either mind. Dare they open the letter?
Dolly twittered:
"I shouldn't think you would allow him to write to her! He belongs to you!"
She felt like making common cause with Roma against Liane, in her bitter envy forgetting how often she had inveighed against Roma's pride and cruelty. She continued artfully:
"The letter can never do her any good, because we don't know where to send it. And—and would it be any harm for us to take a peep at it?"
"I think I have a right," Roma answered, her bosom heaving stormily, then she clutched Dolly's arm: