“Oh? May I smoke, Mrs. Summers?” He drew out his cigarette-case. “Who is the lady?”
“Philippa Burton.”
“Oh, yes! She was dining at Lady Wilmot’s last night.” He threw away the match. “What does she say?”
His wife began to read:—
“Dear Cecily,—You will wonder who is addressing you in this familiar fashion, and even when you look at the signature, I wonder whether you will remember your old school-fellow—Philippa Burton? I am writing because, after this week, I shall be a near neighbor of yours. I have broken down a little, over my work; my doctor has ordered me country air, and I find the village to which he is sending me is your village! Sheepcote is so easy of access to town that I can run up when it is absolutely necessary, do as much work as I am allowed, and, I hope, renew my friendship with you. I met your husband yesterday at Lady Wilmot’s. What a charming man he is, and how proud you must be of him.”
“Spare my blushes,” interpolated Kingslake, in a lazy voice. Cecily concluded—
“May I sign myself, as in old days,
“Affectionately yours,
“Philippa Burton.”
She folded the letter deliberately, and replaced it in its envelope.
“Well, you can look after her a little, can’t you?” observed Kingslake. “You might see about getting her rooms, perhaps? Wouldn’t old Mrs. Green take her?—or the Watford woman? But this isn’t very amusing for Mrs. Summers, I’m afraid.” He turned to her politely.