"Oh I did he give any account of himself?"
Jack looked at her.
"Well, he did. I've come about that. It's not very pleasant."
"Is he ill?" asked Jenny sharply.
"Oh, no; not at all; at least, he didn't say so."
"What's the matter, then?"
Jack fumbled in his breast-pocket and drew out a letter, which he held a moment before unfolding.
"I think you'd better read what he says, Miss Launton. It isn't pleasant, but it's all over now. I thought I'd better tell you that first."
She held out her hand without speaking.
Jack gave it her, and addressed himself carefully to his cigarette. He didn't like this kind of thing at all, he wished Frank wouldn't give him unpleasant commissions. But, of course, it had to be done. He looked out at the lawn and the sleepy house, but was aware of nothing except the girl beside him in her white dress and the letter in her hands. When she had finished it, she turned back and read it again. Then she remained perfectly still, with the letter held on her knee.