He
had a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes stared
insolently at me.
'Do you know anything about a letter--in French--that my wife opened--a
letter of mine--?'
'Yes,' said I. 'She asked me to read it to her.'
He looked square at me. He did not know exactly how to feel.
'What was there in it?' he asked.
'Why?' I said. 'Don't you know?'
'She makes out she's burnt it,' he said.
'Without showing it you?' I asked.
He nodded slightly. He seemed to be meditating as to what line of action
he should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he must
know: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had taunted
him. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold vengeance
on my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and neither of
us spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And yet I only
looked at him, and considered.
Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then he
changed his position--he was a horse-soldier. Then he looked at me
confidentially.
'She burnt the blasted thing before I saw it,' he said.
'Well,' I answered slowly, 'she doesn't know herself what was in it.'
He continued to watch me narrowly. I grinned to myself.
'I didn't like to read her out what there was in it,' I continued.
He suddenly flushed so that the veins in his neck stood out, and he
stirred again uncomfortably.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146