"And they will be making the hay." she told herself delightedly, as she waited for Feathers to come. "I wonder if they will let us help!"
She had almost forgotten that there might be a letter from Chris that morning. It gave her a little shock to see it lying on the breakfast-table. It was as if for a space she had forgotten how to suffer and grieve, and now the sight of his handwriting had dragged her back to it once again.
Chris had written in a tearing hurry—or so he said. He had packed up to come home, and then a friend of his had asked him to play in a golf tournament, and after a lot of persuasion he had given in, and he was going to play with Dorothy Webber for a partner, so he thought they stood a good chance of carrying off a prize.
Marie read it apathetically. Her heart felt as hard as a stone. The letter told her nothing she had not already guessed. She crushed it into her coat pocket and tried to forget it.
He had put the importance of a stupid golf handicap before her! Well, if she cried herself blind it would not alter things or change him.
"I suppose Mrs. Heriot didn't turn up in Scotland," she said cynically to Feathers as they drove away.
He kept his eyes steadily before him as he answered:
"If she did I did not see her."
Marie laughed hysterically.
"I thought you might have done so."