“My regiment was brigaded with Lord Brayfield’s for a time in South Africa. I was in the action in which he was shot, poor chap. He saw me and remembered that I was a—a friend of yours. When he was dying he wanted to see me. I was sent for, and he gave me this letter for you. He asked me to give it to you myself if I came back.”
He bent down to her with the letter.
“Thank you,” she said, and she took it without looking at all surprised, and with her habitual composed gravity. “There are Turkish cigarettes in that ivory box,” she added, looking at a box on a table close by.
“Thank you.”
As Dion turned to get a cigarette he heard her tearing Brayfield’s envelope.
“Will you give me one?” said the husky voice.
Without saying anything he handed to her the box, and held a lighted match to her cigarette when it was between the pale lips. She smoked gently as she opened and read Brayfield’s letter. When she had finished it—evidently it was not a long letter—she put it back into the envelope, laid it down on the green divan and said:
“What do you think of this room? It was designed and arranged by Monsieur de Vaupre, a French friend of mine.”
“By a man!” said Dion, irrepressibly.
“Who hasn’t been in the South African War. Do you like it?”