At this moment Ford stepped forward. "Your telegram has come back, miss," he said. "The one you sent this morning. The woman at the post-office doesn't understand where it is to go to, and she can't read this word."
"What is it?" asked Francis, who had heard the man speaking.
"It is a telegram I sent this morning to—a friend in Russia, and there seems to be some muddle at the post-office about it."
"We will drive there, and then you can go in and explain it yourself." He stepped into the carriage as he spoke, and Keen arranged the rug over his knees.
Philippa hesitated. She did not want Francis to go into the village, and yet, since he himself had suggested it, it was difficult to find a good reason for opposing him.
"What is it about?" he asked again.
"Oh, it isn't of any great importance. It is only an address that some one asked me to send. It can quite well wait. I can attend to it when I come in."
"But why not take it? It won't take long."
"I will take it myself, miss, if you wish," said Ford, "if you will tell me the spelling of this word."
Philippa spelt it—"Nevskiy."