"Quite."
"Very well! That's what I'll do, then."
After this there was a period of quiet in which I assumed that my husband was writing his letter. Then I heard a bell ring somewhere in the corridor, and shortly afterwards there was a second voice in the sitting-room, but I could not hear the words that were spoken. I suppose it was Hobson's low voice, for after another short interval of silence there came the thrum and throb of a motor-car and the rumble of india-rubber wheels on the wet gravel of the courtyard in front of the hotel.
Then my husband knocked at my door again.
"I've written that letter and Hobson is waiting to take it. Your father will probably get it before he goes to bed. It will be a bad break on the festivities he was preparing for the village people. But you are still of the same mind, I suppose?"
I did not speak, but I rose and went over to the window. For some reason difficult to explain, that reference to the festivities had cut me to the quick.
My husband must have been fuming at my apparent indifference, and I felt as if I could see him looking at me, passionate and proud.
"Between the lot of you I think you've done me a great injustice. Have you nothing to say?"
Even then I did not answer.
"All right! As you please."