Now come inside the drawing-room, every one of
you, or you will all blame me for undermining your precious
healths--you, too, Major, and bring your cigars with you. So you
don't drop your ashes into my tea-caddy, I don't care where you
throw them."
It was late in the afternoon of the second day when the telegram
arrived, a delay which caused no apparent suffering to any one
except, perhaps, Peter, who wandered about with a "Nothing from
Jack yet, eh?" A question which no one answered, it being
addressed to nobody in particular, unless it was to Ruth, who had
started at every ring of the door-bell. As to Miss Felicia--she
had already dismissed the young man from her mind.
When it did arrive there was a slight flutter of interest, but
nothing more; Miss Felicia laying down her book, Ruth asking in
indifferent tones--even before the despatch was opened--"Is he
coming?" and Morris, who was playing chess with Peter, holding his
pawn in mid-air until the interruption was over.
Not so Peter--who with a joyous "Didn't I tell you the boy would
keep his promise--" sprang from his chair, nearly upsetting the
chess-board in his eagerness to hear from Jack, an eagerness
shared by Ruth, whose voice again rang out, this time in an
anxious tone,
"Hurry up, Uncle Peter--is he coming?"
Peter made no answer; he was staring straight at the open slip,
his face deathly pale, his hand trembling.
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