"Emily De Mellissie."
I read nearly to the end before suspecting that the letter was not meant for me. I had supposed it to be the answer to the one I despatched to Emily in the previous week. Some one else—as it would appear—had despatched one also, remonstrating at the inconvenience my presence caused at Chandos.
With a face that was burning in its every lineament—with hands that trembled as they closed—with a heart that felt half sick with shame—I started up. That very moment I would write word to Madame de Mellissie that I was quitting Chandos; and to Miss Barlieu, to say I was coming. In the midst of which paroxysm there entered Mr. Chandos, between Hickens and a stick.
He sat down in an arm-chair, wishing me good morning. When the man had gone I advanced to him with the open letter.
"This letter must be intended for you, I think, Mr. Chandos, although it was addressed to me. It is from Madame Alfred de Mellissie."
"Just so," he said, taking it, and handing me the one he himself held. This I presume is for you, as it begins "My dear Anne Hereford. Emily has betrayed her characteristic heedlessness, in sending my letter to you, and yours to me."
He ran his eyes over the note, and then called to me. I stood looking from the window.
"Have you read this?"
"Every word. Until I came to my own name I never suspected that it was not written for me. I am very sorry, Mr. Chandos; but I hope you will not blame me; indeed it was done inadvertently."
"So am I sorry," he answered, in a joking sort of tone, as if he would pass the matter over lightly. "Emily's letters ought to be preserved in the British Museum."