"It is difficult to know what to think," says Lady Etwynde. "I have known people marry for love, for money, for rank, for convenience, for obedience's sake, for duty's sake, and yet I don't know of one single really happy marriage. The lovers have got sick of each other in a year, the moneyed pair are miserable, the other indifferent, unfaithful, erratic, as the case may be. Is it any wonder, Lauraine, that I gave the business a wide berth?"
"You are fortunate to be able to please yourself," says Lauraine; "it is not every woman who can do that."
"No, I suppose not," says her friend. "And then it's a case of 'what can't be cured, must be endured.' Is baby too heavy for you? Let me carry him now!"
"I wonder what makes him shiver so?" says Lauraine, anxiously. "I don't think nurse ought to have brought him out such a cold afternoon."
"And we haven't a shawl or wrap of any description," says Lady Etwynde. "Yes he does look cold. There, I'll turn his face away from the wind. We shall soon be home. Why, how troubled you look, my dear. When you have a nursery full of little plagues, you won't fidget about one so much."
But, despite her cheery words, she hurries on as fast as her feet can carry her. The little fellow shivers constantly during that passage through the avenue, and glad indeed is she when the ruddy blaze of lights and fire gleams from the great dark old mansion.
"He will soon be warm now," she says, cheerfully when they reach the house. Lauraine and herself take off his hat and coat, and sit down with him before the great blazing fire in the hall, and chafe his little cold hands and feet until he crows and laughs, and seems to have quite recovered himself again.
The two women sit there and have tea brought to them, and administer some to baby, who appreciates it immensely. They play games with him, and sing nursery rhymes, and in fact, have an hour of the simplest, and perhaps also the purest enjoyment that women can have. Then nurse comes, and he is carried off to bed, flushed, rosy, boisterous, his pretty laughter echoing down the wide oak staircase, his eyes beaming star-like down on his mother's face so long as ever she remains in sight. When he is fairly gone the two friends ensconce themselves comfortably before the great fireplace.
A footman enters with the post-bag, and hands it to his mistress. Lauraine unlocks it, and takes out its contents. She hands two or three letters to Lady Etwynde, and glances carelessly at her own. One, she sees, is from her husband, the other—a sudden wave of colour crimsons her face. Only too well she knows those bold, clear characters. "Why does he write to me?" she thinks, passionately. "Can't he even try and let me forget?"
Lady Etwynde is absorbed in her own correspondence. Lauraine hastily tears open the envelope and takes out two sheets closely covered. The letter begins without any preamble, or formal mode of address: