I took up my work again; a pretty bag I was embroidering in grey and black silk for Lady Chandos. He sat on the other side the window, reading his book and talking to me between whiles. All things seemed full of rest and peace and love; a very paradise.
Soon—I daresay it was an hour, but time passed so swiftly—we heard footsteps come along the broad walk to the portico. I looked out to see whose they were.
"It is Mr. Dexter," I said to Mr. Chandos.
"Dexter! The very man I wanted to see. Now you need not go away," he added, as I began to gather up my work, "we are not about to talk treason. Don't you know, Anne, that I like to have you with me while I may."
He must have been thinking of the approaching separation that the event of Emily would bring about. But I had to get some more silk, and went to fetch it, staying in my room some minutes. When I got back they were both seated at the table, some papers before them. I turned to the window, and went on with my work.
The conversation appeared to be of little moment; of none to me! it was of leases, rents, repairs, and other matters connected with the estate. Presently Mr. Dexter mentioned that he had received a letter from Haines.
"Have you?" said Mr. Chandos. "I wrote to him this afternoon. What does he say?"
Mr. Dexter took a letter from his pocket-book, and put it into his master's hand, who ran his eyes over it.
"My letter will be useless, then, and I must write another," he observed when he had finished. "I'll get it, and show you what I said. It will save explanation."
"Let me get it for you, Mr. Chandos," I interposed, anxious to save him. And without waiting for permission I left the room. But the letter was not on the table.