And now Stephen could sit and gloom over her trouble while Anna read placidly, asking no questions. She seldom worried her daughter with questions, seldom even evinced any interest in her letters.
From time to time Puddle would write from Morton, and then Anna would say, recognizing the writing: ‘Is everything all right?’
And Stephen would answer: ‘Yes, Mother, Puddle says everything’s all right.’ As indeed it was—at Morton.
But from Scotland news seemed to come very slowly. Stephen’s letters would quite often go unanswered; and what answers she received were unsatisfactory, for Angela’s caution was a very strict censor. Stephen herself must write with great care, she discovered, in order to pacify that censor.
Twice daily she visited the hotel porter, a kind, red-faced man with a sympathy for lovers.
‘Any letters for me?’ she would ask, trying hard to appear rather bored at the mere thought of letters.
‘No, miss.’
‘There’s another post in at seven?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Well—thank you.’