Eileen, pale and heavy-lidded, looked in on her way to some afternoon
affair, nodding unsmiling at Boots.
"Have you been rifling the pantry, too?" he whispered. "You lack your
usual chromatic symphony."
"No, Boots; I'm just tired. If I wasn't physically afraid of Drina, I'd
get you to run off with me--anywhere. . . . What is that letter, Nina?
For me?"
"It's for Phil. Boots brought it around. Leave it on the library table,
dear, when you go down."
Eileen took the letter and turned away. A few moments later as she laid
it on the library table, her eyes involuntarily noted the superscription
written in the long, angular, fashionable writing of a woman.
And slowly the inevitable question took shape within her.
How long she stood there she did not know, but the points of her gloved
fingers were still resting on the table and her gaze was still
concentrated on the envelope when she felt Selwyn's presence in the
room, near, close; and looked up into his steady eyes.
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