“Do you mean to say you’re not sure? If poor George only knew what an affectionate sweetheart he has!” “They came when you were very ill. How could I think of them then?” “I don’t know. It seems the proper thing, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they be generally supposed to be a comfort to you?” “Possibly, by people who didn’t know the circumstances.” “Why, Pen!” Colin gave her a puzzled look. “Couldn’t you read me a bit here and there?” he asked coaxingly. “I should like to hear how the old fellow is getting on.” “I’m not sure that I can find them. I’ll look.” She went into her own room, and returned presently with some crumpled papers in her hand. “There must have been three, but I can only find two. I remember the _dhobi_ sent some message about a paper in the pocket of a dress that went to the wash. I must have thrust it away and forgotten all about it. Don’t look at me with huge reproachful eyes in that way, Colin. I suppose you think I ought to work an embroidered case for George’s letters, and keep them next my heart, don’t you?” “I thought that was the sort of thing girls did generally. Of course I mightn’t be allowed to see them, Pen?” He spoke in jest; but his eyes were fastened hungrily on the letters. “Oh dear, yes! I don’t mind. Why shouldn’t you?” Colin was taken aback. He had no experience in love-affairs, but it struck him that this was not quite as it should be. He smoothed out the crushed sheets as she handed them to him. “Why, they look just as if you had crumpled them up and thrown them across the room!” he said. “Well, if you are anxious to know, that is exactly what I did do, and the ayah picked them up and put them carefully into a drawer.” “Pen!” Colin was shocked. “What could you have been thinking about?” “Oh, I happened to be in a bad temper, that was all, of course. Don’t worry your head about it, dear. Now that you are better, I don’t so much mind all the other things. I oughtn’t to be cross and horrid, when I’m so thankful about you, ought I? but I’m tired, and we’ve been anxious about you for so long.” She bent over him and kissed his forehead, and Colin, though perplexed, acquiesced in her evident desire to change the subject. But he watched her anxiously, noticing the irritability which was so new in her voice, and the restless unhappiness of her face when she thought herself alone. “Pen,” he said suddenly one day, “has anything gone wrong between you and George?” “Oh, nothing particular,” she answered listlessly. “It’s only that if I knew I should never see him again, I should be perfectly happy.” “Penelope!” he cried, aghast. “You would like him to disappear, perhaps to be killed, like poor Whybrow?” “No, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. But if he would only fall in love with some one else, and never come back here!” “I don’t think you are at all in a right state of mind, Penelope.” Colin’s didactic instincts were roused by this heartless speech.