“There’s nothing I have done, at any time, to hurt you, is there?”
“No, no, Mr. Dan, nothing.”
“You’d tell me?”
“Why, of course.”
The change did not affect the ordinary routine of their lives much except that as he spent more of his time in the apartment, the working fit being still absent, while Inga was busy at the Arcade, their days became more divided. After a little while he ceased to notice this.
One afternoon she came home later than usual, and at the first glance at her face he perceived that something out of the ordinary had transpired. He helped her out of her coat with a vague feeling of uneasiness. In her hand was a letter, which she had been clutching so tightly that it had become twisted and wrinkled.
“Well, what has happened?” he said when they had gone into the studio and were standing by the great window that gave on to the low spread of park beneath. She looked into his eyes and saw them go down to the crumpled envelope still in her hand.
“You remember that letter?” she said slowly, “that letter last summer?”
He nodded.
“And this is another one?”