Sarah starts as she sees Mr. Roche on the doorstep.
"Good-morning," he says, "are there any letters for me?"
He does not wait for the answer, but walks straight in, and takes up a pile of envelopes on the hall table.
A few circulars, a bill, and three letters addressed to Eleanor at Copthorne in his own handwriting, and forwarded back by Mrs. Grebby to Mrs. Roche at Lyndhurst.
He stares at them in mute amazement, as if in those white envelopes a horrible mystery lies unrolled.
He tears them slowly open one by one, reading what he knows so well already, the casual news, the fond farewells, penned only for Eleanor's eyes.
How is it she has never received them? How is it they have been sent back by Mrs. Grebby when Eleanor is there?
For the moment he is unnerved. Then he pulls himself together, places the letters in his pocket, picks up his stick, and turns to go.
"Are you coming home to-day, sir?" asks Sarah.
"Coming home!" The words grate on him.