We were at breakfast the following morning, when the letters, as before, were brought in. Two or three for the servants, which Mr. Chandos returned to Hickens, one for Mr. Chandos, and one for Madame Alfred de Mellissie.
"I thought he would be writing," Emily observed, in a tone of apathy, carelessly holding out her hand for the letter. "Though I know he hates it like poison, Frenchman like."
"It is not your husband's hand, Emily," said Mr. Chandos.
"No? Why—I declare it is old Madame de Mellissie's! What can be amiss?" she cried.
"There! was ever anything like that?" she exclaimed, glancing down the letter. "Alfred's taken ill: his fancied gastric fever has turned into a real one. And I must go back without delay, the old mère writes."
"Is he very ill?" inquired Lady Chandos.
"So she says—in danger. But she is timid and fanciful. I shall not go."
"Will you allow me to see the letter, Emily?" asked Lady Chandos, in a grave tone.
"See it and welcome; read it out for the public benefit, if you will, mamma. Look at Harry, staring at me with his blue eyes! He deems me, no doubt, the very model of a loving wife."
"Emily! can you have read this letter?" asked Lady Chandos.