Hector’s letter first and then Josiah’s.  All her pent-up, concentrated rage was having its outlet, and almost joy was animating her being.

Hector’s was a long letter; probably very loving, but that did not concern her.

It would be most unladylike to read it, she decided—­a sort of thing only the housemaids would do.  What she intended was to place them in the wrong envelopes—­Hector’s to Josiah, and Josiah’s to Hector.  It was a mistake any one might make themselves when they were writing, and Theodora, when it should be discovered, could only blame her own supposed carelessness.  Even if the letter was an innocent one, which was not at all likely.  Oh, dear, no!  She knew the world, however little girls were supposed to understand.  She had kept her eyes open, thank goodness; and it would certainly not be an epistle a husband would care to read—­a great thing of pages and pages like that.  But even if it were innocent, it was bound to cause some trouble and annoyance; and the thought of that was honey and balm to her.

She slipped them into the covers she had destined for them and pressed down the damp gum.  So all was as it had been to outward appearance, and she felt perfectly happy.  Then when she descended to tea she placed them securely in the box under some more of her own for the seven-o’clock post, and went her way rejoicing.

XXVIII

Next morning, over a rather late breakfast in his sitting-room at Claridge’s, Josiah’s second post came in.

All had gone well with his business in the City the day before, and in the afternoon he had run down to Bessington Hall, returning late at night.

He was feeling unusually well and self-important, and his thoughts turned to pleasant things:  To the delight of having Theodora once more as a wife; of his hope of founding a family—­the Browns of Bessington—­why not?  Had not a boy at the gate called him squire?

“Good-day to ’e, squire,” he had said, and that was pleasant to hear.

If only his tiresome cough would keep off in the autumn, he might himself shoot the extensive coverts he had ordered to be stocked on the estate.  He had heard there were schools for would-be sportsmen to learn the art of handling a gun, and he would make inquiries.

All the prospect was fair.

He picked up his letters and turned them over.  Nothing of importance.  Ah, yes! there was Theodora’s.  The first letter she had ever written him, and such a long one!  What could the girl have to say?  Surely not all that about trains!  He opened the envelope with a knife which lay by his plate, and this is what he read—­read with whitening face and sinking heart: 

     “BEECHLEIGH, June 5th.