"It is my mail," he reminded her. "She had asked me if she might open it. Of course I told her no."
"Well," said Ina practically, "what does he say?"
"I shall open the letter in my own time. My present concern is this disregard of my wishes." His self-control was perfect, ridiculous, devilish. He was self-controlled because thus he could be more effectively cruel than in temper. "What excuse have you to offer?"
Lulu was not looking at him. "None," she said—not defiantly, or ingratiatingly, or fearfully. Merely, "None."
"Why did you do it?"
She smiled faintly and shook her head.
"Dwight," said Ina, reasonably, "she knows what's in it and we don't. Hurry up."
"She is," said Dwight, after a pause, "an ungrateful woman."
He opened the letter, saw the clipping, the avowal, with its facts.
"A-ha!" said he. "So after having been absent with my brother for a month, you find that you were not married to him."