“I don’t think he really likes me better,” said Nina innocently. “I am not clever enough for him. If he had met you—differently—I am sure he would have liked you best.”
Lettice did not answer. But a moment or two later, as she was leaving the room, she spoke again on the same subject.
“You’ll let me see your letter before you send it, won’t you?” she said. “Don’t be afraid that I shall be vexed if you write cordially. I don’t want him to think us ungrateful. It isn’t his fault.”
Nina could scarcely believe her ears. What could be coming ever Lettice? She wished Arthur were at hand to talk over this wonderful change, which she felt completely unable to explain. But it was not Nina’s “way” to trouble or perplex herself about problems which, as she said to herself, would probably sooner or later solve themselves. In this, as in most other characteristics, she was a complete contrast to her sister.
She wrote the letter—a pretty, girlish, almost affectionate little letter it was—and brought it to Lettice for approval. The elder sister read it, smiling once or twice in a manner that would have puzzled Nina had she been given to puzzling.
“Yes,” said Lettice, “it will do very well;” and she was turning away, when Nina stopped her.
“Lettice,” she began.
“Well?”
“I wanted to tell you—yesterday, when I was out with Bertha, we—I—met Mr Dexter. It is the first time I have seen him since our—our mourning.”
“I think it was very inconsiderate of him to speak to you in the street,” said Lettice. “Here, too, where everything one does is observed.”