At lunch Mr. Barnard suddenly bethought him of a letter which had arrived for Herbert that morning.
“It was a black-bordered envelope, so I advised Higgins not to deliver it, in case Bert should take it as a bad omen, coming on his wedding-day,” he said in explanation. “What the dickens did I do with it, though? Ah, here it is!” extracting it from the depths of one of his numerous pockets. “I suppose we had better forward it, Miss Franks?”
Celia examined the envelope. “I can open it,” she replied, with a sigh. “I know where it comes from. Poor Mrs. Neville Williams——”
“Do you mean to say she is——” asked Lord Bexley, in a tone of awe.
The girl nodded. “Yes, she is dead,” she rejoined solemnly, as she read the letter. “I am glad that you did not give this to my brother, Mr. Barnard.”
“But I saw Dr. Milnes last week,” pursued Bexley, as though he could scarcely believe it. “He told me that the operation was quite a success.”
“Yes, so it was, according to the nurse’s account also,” answered Celia. “She says: ‘The operation in itself was entirely successful, but the unfortunate lady succumbed to weakness following a relapse.’ Poor Mrs. Neville Williams! I am sorry she is dead!”
“She was a slap-bang and a dash kind of woman, if ever there was one,” remarked Harry Barnard, unfeelingly. “Never happy unless she was up to some sort of a lark. Great Scott, the tricks she used to get up to when Bert and I were in Paris! As flighty as a two-year-old she was, but as cunning as they make ’em. She would have made up to you if you had given her half a chance, wouldn’t she, my lord?”
Bexley looked over at Celia and felt uncomfortable. “Mrs. Neville Williams is dead,” he said with quiet emphasis. “Requiescat in pace.”
And then Celia, who considered Mr. Barnard’s remarks in somewhat bad taste, tactfully changed the subject.