at her now for the first time, apparently in some surprise:
"No--it is not my custom to study addresses of letters not my own. Nora
said it was for Bernal and he had seemed really distressed about some
letter or message that didn't come--if you will leave it here--"

"I wish to hand it to him myself."

"As you like." He returned to his work, crossing out a whole line and a
half with broad, emphatic marks. Then he bent lower, and the interest in
his page seemed to redouble, for he heard the door of Bernal's room
open. Nancy called:

"Bernal!"

He came to the door where she stood and she stepped a little inside so
that he might enter.

"I am anxious about a letter. Ah, you have it!"

She was scanning him with a look that was acid to eat out any untruth in
his face.

"Yes--it just came." She held it out to him. He looked at the front of
the envelope, then up to her half-shut eager eyes--eyes curiously
hardened now--then he blushed flagrantly--a thorough, riotous blush--and
reached for the letter with a pitiful confusion of manner, not again
raising his uneasy eyes to hers.

"I was expecting--looking--for a message, you know--yes, yes--this is
it--thank you very much, you know!"

He stammered, his confusion deepened. With the letter clutched eagerly
in his hand he went out.

She looked after him, intently. When he had shut his own door she
glanced over at the inattentive Allan, once more busy at his manuscript
and apparently unconscious of her presence.

A long time she stood in silence, trying to moderate the beating of her
heart. Once she turned as if to go, but caught herself and turned again
to look at the bent head of Allan.

At last it seemed to her that she could trust herself to speak. Closing
the door softly, she went to the big chair at the end of the desk. As
she let herself go into this with a sudden joy in the strength of its
supporting arms, her husband looked up at her inquiringly.

She did not speak, but returned his gaze; returned it, with such
steadiness that presently he let his own eyes go down before hers with
palpable confusion, as if fearing some secret might lie there plain to
her view. His manner stimulated the suspicion under which she now seemed
to labour.

"Allan, I must know something at once very clearly. It will make a
mighty difference in your life and in mine."

"What is it you wish to know?" His glance was oblique and his manner one
of discomfort, the embarrassed discomf