She was turning over her letters.
"Here's one for you, Susan," she said. "It's a London postmark. A big hotel, but rather a common hand."
Susan took it indifferently. Lady Henrietta was already plunged in the midst of a family letter; wherein an aunt of Barnaby's was presuming to offer her advice. She read out bits of it with little shrieks of scorn.
"'When Toby broke his leg I made a point of——' Who cares what folly she committed when Toby broke his leg? 'I do hope, Henrietta, you see that the doctors do not permit the poor boy's wife to be in and out of the sick-room. It irritates the nurses.' ... Ah, but ours is a romantic sick-room! If we had married a fool like Charlotte's daughter-in-law—!"
She glanced up smiling at the other two. Providence, not she, had taken the field; and she had faith in its workings as efficacious. But Susan was not attending. She was reading her letter still. "My dear," said Lady Henrietta, "who is the common person?"
But she got no answer.
"Come! Tell us," said Barnaby; and at his voice Susan started.
"Somebody I—used to know," she said.
Lady Henrietta had returned to her own correspondence. Her mild curiosity could wait until the girl had finished deciphering the almost illegible scrawl.
"You might straighten the pillows for me," said Barnaby.