“My dear Castleton, I’ll tell you anything you like.”
“How did you sign the letter?” Onslow’s face looked sad as he answered:
“I signed it by another old pet name we both understood. We had pet names—people always have when they are first married,” he added with embarrassment.
“Of course,” murmured the sympathetic Castleton.
“One such name lasted a long time. An old friend of my father’s came to see us, and in a playful moment he said I was a ‘sad dog.’ Fenella took it up and used to call me ‘Doggie,’ and I often signed myself ‘Frank Doggie’—as men usually do.”
“Of course,” again murmured Castleton, as if such a signature was a customary thing. Then he added, “And on this occasion?”
“On this occasion I used the name that seemed full of happiest memories. ‘Frank Doggie’ may seem idiotic to an outsider, but to Fenella and myself it might mean much.”
The two men sat silent awhile, and then Castleton asked softly:
“I suppose it may be taken for granted that Lady Francis never got the letter?”
“I take it, it is so; but it is no matter now, I refused to speak with her just before I met you. I did not know then what I know now—and she will never speak to me again.” He sighed as he spoke, and turned away. Then he went to the rail of the yacht and leaned over with his head down, looking into the still blue water beneath him.