'Letter from a friend?' 'I beg your pardon? What did you say, dear?' He raised his voice unnecessarily: 'I Said A LETTER FROM A FRIEND!' She started. 'Oh yes! I heard this time.' 'Edith, I know of an excellent aurist in Bond Street. I wish you'd go and see him. I'll give you the address.' 'I know of a very good elocutionist in Oxford Street. I think I would go and have some lessons, if I were you, Bruce; the summer classes are just beginning. They teach you to speak so clearly, to get your voice over the footlights, as it were. I think all men require to study oratory and elocution. It comes in so useful!' Bruce lowered his voice almost to a whisper. 'Are you playing the fool with me?' She nodded amiably in the manner of a person perfectly deaf, but who is pretending to hear. 'Yes, dear; yes, quite right.' 'What do you mean by 'quite right'?' He unfastened his coat and threw it open, glaring at her a little. 'Who--me? _I_ don't know.' 'Who is that letter from, Edith?' he said breezily, in a tone of sudden careless and cheery interest. 'I haven't read it yet, Bruce,' she answered, in the same tone, brightly. 'Oh. Why don't you read it?' 'Oh! I shall presently.' 'When?' 'When I've opened it.' He took off his other glove, folded it with the first one, made them into a ball, and threw it across the room against the window, while his colour deepened. 'Oh, do you want to have a game? Shall I send for Archie?' 'Edith, why don't you take off your hat?' 'I can't think. Why don't you take off your coat?' 'I haven't time. Show me that letter.' 'What letter?' 'Don't prevaricate with me.' Bruce had now definitely lost his temper. 'I can stand anything except prevarication. Anything in the world, but prevarication, I can endure, with patience. But _not_ that! As if you didn't know perfectly well there's only one letter I want to see.' 'Really?' 'Who's your letter from?' 'How should I know?' Edith got up and went towards the door. Bruce was beforehand with her and barred the way, standing with his arms outstretched and his back to the door. 'Edith, I'm pained and surprised at your conduct!' 'Conduct!' she exclaimed. 'Don't echo my words! I will _not_ be echoed, do you hear?... Behaviour, then, if you prefer the word.... Why don't you wish me to see that letter?' Edith quickly looked at the letter. Until this moment she had had an unreasonable and nervous terror that Aylmer might have forgotten his intention of writing what he called officially, and might have written her what she now inwardly termed a lot of nonsense. But she now saw she had made a mistake: it was not his handwriting nor his postmark. She became firmer. 'Look here Bruce,' she said, in a decided voice, quietly. 'We have been married eight years, and I consider you ought to trust me sufficiently to allow me to open my own letters.' 'Oh, you do, do you? What next? What next! I suppose the next thing you'll wish is to be a suffragette.'