The elder one permits herself this inquiry after a more than decent interval has elapsed, during which he has made no sign.
He gives a start, as one too suddenly awaked out of deep sleep.
"Bad news?" he repeats in an odd voice—"what is bad news? That depends upon people's tastes. It is for you to judge of that; it concerns you as much or more than it does me."
So saying, he places the paper in her hand, and, walking away to the little square window—open, despite the wildness of the weather—looks out upon the indigo-coloured night.
Although his back is turned towards them, he knows that Elizabeth is reading over her mother's shoulder—reading this:
"Bourgouin,
"Grand Hotel,
"Algiers."Have heard of Le Marchants. If you do not wire to the contrary, shall cross to-morrow.—Byng, Marseille."
He is not left long in doubt as to their having mastered the meaning of the missive.
"He is coming!" says Mrs. Le Marchant with a species of gasp; "and you told me—not five minutes ago you told me"—with an accent of reproach—"that there was not the remotest chance of it. Oh, stop him! stop him! Telegraph at once! The office will be open for two or three hours yet! There is plenty, plenty of time! Oh, telegraph at once—at once!"
"It is too late," replies Jim, retracing his steps to the table; "you forget that it is two days old. You see, they have spelt my name wrong; that accounts for the mistake. Bourgouin! It looks odd spelt Bourgouin, does not it?"
He hears himself giving a small, dry laugh, which nobody echoes.