XXXI
Swithin’s midnight excursion to the tower in the cause of science led him to oversleep himself, and when the brother and sister met at breakfast in the morning he did not appear.
‘Don’t disturb him,—don’t disturb him,’ said Louis laconically. ‘Hullo, Viviette, what are you reading there that makes you flame up so?’
She was glancing over a letter that she had just opened, and at his words looked up with misgiving.
The incident of the previous night left her in great doubt as to what her bearing towards him ought to be. She had made no show of resenting his conduct at the time, from a momentary supposition that he must know all her secret; and afterwards, finding that he did not know it, it seemed too late to affect indignation at his suspicions. So she preserved a quiet neutrality. Even had she resolved on an artificial part she might have forgotten to play it at this instant, the letter being of a kind to banish previous considerations.
‘It is a letter from Bishop Helmsdale,’ she faltered.
‘Well done! I hope for your sake it is an offer.’
‘That’s just what it is.’
‘No,—surely?’ said Louis, beginning a laugh of surprise.
‘Yes,’ she returned indifferently. ‘You can read it, if you like.’