She was so unstrung that she let her hand rest in his. He tried to console her.
"It's incomprehensible, isn't it? It's so unlike Edward. I can't help feeling there must be some mistake."
She did not say anything for a while, and when she spoke it was hesitatingly.
"Has it struck you that there was anything queer in his letters lately?" she asked, looking away, her eyes all bright with tears.
He did not quite know how to answer.
"I have noticed a change in them," he admitted. "He seems to have lost that high seriousness which I admired so much in him. One would almost think that the things that matter—well, don't matter."
Isabel did not reply. She was vaguely uneasy.
"Perhaps in his answer to your letter he'll say when he's coming home. All we can do is to wait for that."
Another letter came from Edward for each of them, and still he made no mention of his return; but when he wrote he could not have received Bateman's enquiry. The next mail would bring them an answer to that. The next mail came, and Bateman brought Isabel the letter he had just received; but the first glance of his face was enough to tell her that he was disconcerted. She read it through carefully and then, with slightly tightened lips, read it again.
"It's a very strange letter," she said. "I don't quite understand it."