With an effort she pressed the hand that was squeezing hers.
“What, Arnold, in the letter-card? But I think it was just too weird of him not to have shown it to you—too extraordinary.”
Jane felt that she was becoming dazed.
“What did he say?”
“I know it all by heart. I could say it in my sleep. He said, ‘Just off; we sail together. We were married this morning, and I’m the happiest man in the world. Don’t tell any one at present. If you love me, not a word to a soul. Will write from Bolivia.—Arnold. P. S.—On no account tell Aunt Ethel.’ So you see why I nearly died when she said Miss Renata Molloy, for of course I thought you were in Bolivia with Arnold, and oh, Renata, where is he and what has happened? Tell me everything?”
She flung her arms about Jane’s neck as she spoke and gave her a long, clinging kiss. Jane endured it under pressure of that, “You are not a bit like yourself.” When she had borne it for as long as she could, she drew back.
“Listen,” she said.
“Tell me—tell me the worst—tell me everything. Where is Arnold?”
“Arnold is in Bolivia,” said Jane.
“And why aren’t you with him?”