“Have you had many letters from George, Pen?” he asked his sister the very first day.
“Two, I think. No, there must have been three,” she answered indifferently.
“Do you mean to say you’re not sure? If poor George only knew what an affectionate sweetheart he has!”
“They came when you were very ill. How could I think of them then?”
“I don’t know. It seems the proper thing, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they be generally supposed to be a comfort to you?”
“Possibly, by people who didn’t know the circumstances.”
“Why, Pen!” Colin gave her a puzzled look. “Couldn’t you read me a bit here and there?” he asked coaxingly. “I should like to hear how the old fellow is getting on.”
“I’m not sure that I can find them. I’ll look.”
She went into her own room, and returned presently with some crumpled papers in her hand.
“There must have been three, but I can only find two. I remember the dhobi sent some message about a paper in the pocket of a dress that went to the wash. I must have thrust it away and forgotten all about it. Don’t look at me with huge reproachful eyes in that way, Colin. I suppose you think I ought to work an embroidered case for George’s letters, and keep them next my heart, don’t you?”