“But then you’re different; things are quite different for you, Connie,” said Evey.
“I know,” I replied, with self-satisfaction. “But if it was jackets, Evey, they couldn’t come by post.”
It was before the days of parcel-post.
“No, but the letter telling of them would be coming. And it mightn’t be jackets.”
“Why do you care so for the letter?” I asked.
“Oh, because it pleases papa and mamma so. Papa hasn’t seen her for ever so long, though she almost brought him up—but—there were things—I don’t think I can tell you any more,” she broke off, and of course I could not ask any more questions after that. But I had a vaguely uneasy and anxious feeling, especially a little later in the evening, when Captain Whyte returned, dispirited and tired.
“It’s beginning to rain,” he said. “Evey dear, your birthday is not ending as brightly as it began; however—”
“There was no letter?” said Mrs Whyte.
He shook his head.
“It may come to-morrow morning still,” he replied. But I saw that they all seemed disappointed.