“I wonder if we shall?” said Hermione, slowly.
“You—why?”
“I don’t know. Oh, I am absurd, probably. One has such strange ideas, houses based on sand, or on air, or perhaps on nothing at all.”
She got up, went to her writing-table, opened a drawer, and took out of it a letter.
“Emile,” she said, coming back to him with it in her hand, “would you like to explain this to me?”
“What is it?”
“The letter I found from you when I came back from Capri.”
“But does it need explanation?”
“It seemed to me as if it did. Read it and see.”
He took it from her, opened it and read it.