e idea! What injustice to her! And it occurred to
her that for years she had never seen Nigel open his letters. She had,
indeed, not the slightest idea what his manner at breakfast was like.
Was this fair? He always managed to get out of any invitation to the
country which included them both.

As soon as she had thought of this, she rang for her maid, and dressed
in the wildest hurry, as though she had to catch a train: leaving her
tray on the little table untouched, the maid running after her to fasten
hooks, and buttons, to stick in pins, and tie ribbons, as though they
were playing a game.

Mary won. She was flying out of the room when the maid ran after her,
saying:

"Madame, your tortoiseshell comb is falling out of your hair; won't you
let me finish dressing it?"

"Don't worry, Searle. What _does_ it matter?"

She flew downstairs.

Nigel looked up with that intense surprise that no one can succeed in
disguising as the acutest pleasure.

"Well, by Jove," he said, in his quick way, which was so cool and casual
that it almost had the effect of a drawl. He looked at her closely, and
said reassuringly:

"After all, it may not be true; and if it is, it may be for the best."

"What may not be true, Nigel. What do you mean?"

"Why, this sudden bad news."

"What news? There is no news."

"Isn't there? By Jove, this is splendid! Just come down to have
breakfast with me, then! Capital. What will you have, dear?"

He rang the bell.

"Are you sorry to see me?" she asked, darting looks at the envelopes by
his plate, looks that were almost sharp enough to open them.

"Sorry to see you? Don't be absurd! Your comb's falling into the sugar
basin, and I shouldn't think it would improve the taste of the coffee.
Look out! Help! Saved! Mary dear, why don't you do your hair?"

"I was afraid you might go out before I came down."

"Why, I'm not going out for ages, yet."

He gave her his letters in their envelopes, with a half-smile.

"I don't want to see them," she said. "Why do you pass me the letters,
as though you thought I came down for that?"

Nigel pretended not to hear. He opened the newspaper.

"I thought," she went on, "it seemed rather a shame that I should always
have breakfast upstairs, and leave you alone, without anyone to keep you
company."

"Awfully kind of you, but, really, I don't mind a bit."

He gave a quick look round the room. He had again that curious, bitter
sensation of being trapped.