From her window, Gyp saw him get up and stand
with his back ridged, growling at the postman, and, fearing for the
man's calves, she hastened out.
Among the letters was one in that dreaded hand writing marked
"Immediate," and forwarded from his chambers. She took it up, and put it
to her nose. A scent--of what? Too faint to say. Her thumb nails sought
the edge of the flap on either side. She laid the letter down. Any other
letter, but not that--she wanted to open it too much. Readdressing it,
she took it out to put with the other letters. And instantly the thought
went through her: 'What a pity! If I read it, and there was nothing!'
All her restless, jealous misgivings of months past would then be set
at rest! She stood, uncertain, with the letter in her hand. Ah--but if
there WERE something! She would lose at one stroke her faith in him, and
her faith in herself--not only his love but her own self-respect.
She dropped the letter on the table. Could she not take it up to him
herself? By the three o'clock slow train, she could get to him soon
after five. She looked at her watch. She would just have time to walk
down. And she ran upstairs. Little Gyp was sitting on the top stair--her
favourite seat--looking at a picture-book.
"I'm going up to London, darling. Tell Betty I may be back to-night, or
perhaps I may not. Give me a good kiss."
Little Gyp gave the good kiss, and said:
"Let me see you put your hat on, Mum.
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