Such were Miss Mason’s reflections, and her amiability for the next two or three days was as surprising as it was unbounded. Occasionally she would lean back in her low capacious Singapore chair, drop her book in her lap, and indulge in a long and evidently delightful reverie, bewildering her foolish old father by sundry fits of wholly unexplained suppressed laughter. “What ails you, Charlotte, my girl? What’s the matter?” he asked once, somewhat timidly. “Oh, nothing. Nothing that would interest you, daddy; only a little bit of a practical joke that I have played on somebody.” CHAPTER V. THE THUNDERBOLT. Alice, Miss Fane, and Geoffrey were seated at the breakfast-table one drizzling December morning. The post had just come in. Geoffrey, having unlocked the bag, was distributing the letters. “One for you, Miss Fane; looks like a bill,” said he mischievously. “Two young-lady letters for you, Alice, and one from Fairfax, of course. I wonder he does not write thrice a day, and telegraph at intervals: ‘How are you, my darling? Are you thinking of me, my treasure?’ What will you give for it? It’s a pretty thick one,” feeling it critically. “See what it is to be a bride,” and he chanted: “They were never weary; they seemed each day Fresh ecstasy to imbibe; And they gazed in each other’s eyes in a way That I really can’t describe. And once it was my lot to see What shocked my sensitive taste: They were sitting as close as wax, and he Had his arm about her waist.” “That you never did, you rude boy. Here, give me my letter at once, sir!” cried Alice, half rising. “Madam, take it. You need not be blushing like that; it makes me quite hot to look at you. After all, you never did shock my sensitive taste as yet, and I hope you never will. Now for the newspapers,” diving again into the bag. “Halloa! here’s another letter, Alice--from India, I declare, and a good fat one too. Who is your correspondent--a former disconsolate admirer, writing from the East to upbraid you with your perfidy?” “Nonsense, Geoff; how can you talk such utter rubbish? I’m sure I don’t know who it can be from,” turning the letter over. “Cheetapore! I know no one there.” “Well, look sharp and open it, and you’ll soon see. Most likely a bill of Reginald’s. I thought he was a ready-money man,” said Geoffrey austerely. Alice cut the envelope cautiously, and drew out a thin note and a long slip of paper. The note ran as follows: “MADAM, “The enclosed will show you that Sir Reginald Fairfax is not _your_ husband. He has deceived you as he has deceived others. His quiet exterior conceals his real disposition. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “ONE WHO KNOWS HIM WELL.”