Angus abruptly withdrew. Nor was he quite sure whether he had achieved his purpose. As he passed out of the house his doubt was still in his eyes. Nor, to judge by his general expression, was that purpose a kindly one.
The moment the door closed behind Angus, Hendrie swung round in his chair.
"Letters addressed to the post office? Why?" His steady eyes looked up into his wife's face with an intentness that suddenly reminded her of the dreadful display of jealousy she had witnessed once before.
It was a desperate moment. It was one of those moments when it would have been far better to forget all else, and remember only her love for her husband, and trust to that alone. It was a moment when in a flash she saw the deadly side of the innocent deception she was practicing. It was a moment when her soul cried out to her that she was definitely, criminally wrong in the course she had marked out for herself. And, in that moment, two roads distinctly opened up before her mind's eye. One was narrow and threatening; the other, well, it looked the broader and easier of the two, and she plunged headlong down it.
She smiled back into his face. She held up the letter and waved it at him. She was acting. She bitterly knew she was acting.
"Ah," she cried, with a gayety she forced herself to. "You must have your big secrets from me, I must have my little ones from you. That's only fair."
Hendrie smiled, but without warmth.
"Why, it's fair enough, but—I told you my secret."
Monica's laugh rippled pleasantly in his ears.
"So you did. I'd forgotten that." Then she gave an exaggerated sigh. "Then I s'pose I must tell you mine. And I did so want to surprise you with it. You have always told me that I am a—clever business woman, haven't you?"