“Certainly,” Major Winchester replied, trying his best to speak lightly, though a strange vague fear was upon him. “That is the little note I left for you the morning I was called away.” And he looked down at her, smiling as if amused. “You don’t mean to say my poor little note has made any mischief?” he added.
“Read it,” said Imogen, hoarsely.
He did so, drawing the letter calmly out of the envelope, the slight smile still on his lips. But if his unconcern had hitherto added to the girl’s irritation, she had her revenge now. For the change which came over Rex’s face was almost appalling. A sort of grey pallor seemed to spread itself above and through the healthy ruddy bronze; he looked for the moment an elderly man.
“What can I have done?” he exclaimed involuntarily.
And Imogen, watching him breathlessly, gave a shivering gasp.
“What is it?” she said. “Is it some wicked trick? Oh, if only I had not told!”
The last word was almost inaudible; it was not till afterwards that Major Winchester recalled it. By a strong effort he had already mastered himself and recovered his self-possession. He looked almost as usual, as he turned to Imogen.
“I cannot understand how I could be so terribly, so inexcusably careless, Miss Wentworth,” he said. “I am not usually careless. It is only lucky for me—I should indeed be very thankful,” he went on speaking with intentional, deliberate impressiveness, “that my ridiculous mistake occurred between two people I can trust so perfectly and who will be as ready to forgive me as yourself and—and—the person this letter was intended for. I was going to ask your permission to tell you about her, if—”
But the last sentence was lost upon Imogen. She was staring up at him with the strangest expression in her eyes. “Then this letter was not meant for me at all?” she said.
An instant later, and she saw what she had done. The burning crimson rushed over her face like a scorching blast. She glanced round her desperately, as if in vain search of shelter.