'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 cla.s.ses 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.'

'The question,' said Edith, in the most cool, high, irritating voice she could command, 'really, of votes for women hardly enters into our argument here. As a matter of fact, I take no interest in any kind of politics, and, I may be entirely wrong, but if I were compelled to take sides on the subject, I should be an anti-suffragist.'

'Oh, you would, would you? That's as well to know! That's interesting.

Give me that letter.'

'Do you think you have the right to speak to me like that?'

'Edith,' he said rather pathetically, trying to control himself. 'I beg you, I _implore_ you to let me see the letter! Hang it all! You know perfectly well, old girl, how fond I am of you. I may worry you a bit sometimes, but you know my heart's all right.'

'Of course, Bruce; I'm not finding fault with you. I only want to read my own letter, that's all.'

'But if I let you out of this room without having shown it me, then if there's something you don't want me to see, you'll tear it up or chuck it in the fire.'

Edith was quite impressed at this flash of prophetic insight. She admitted to herself he was right.

'It's entirely a matter of principle,' she said after another rea.s.suring look at the envelope. 'It's only a matter of principle, dear, I'm twenty-eight years old, we've been married eight years; you leave the housekeeping, the whole ordering of the children's education, and heaps of other quite important things, entirely to me; in fact, you lead almost the life of a schoolboy, without any of the tiresome part, and with freedom, going to school in the day and amusing yourself in the evening, while everything disagreeable and important is thought of and seen to for you. You only have the children with you when they amuse you. I have all the responsibility; I have to be patient, thoughtful--in fact, you leave things to me more than most men do to their wives, Bruce. You won't be bothered even to look at an account--to do a thing. But I'm not complaining.'

'Oh, you're not! It sounded a little like it.'

'But it isn't. I don't _mind_ all this responsibility, but I ought, at least, to be allowed to read my letters.'

'Well, darling, you shall, as a rule. Look here, old girl, you shall. I promise you, faithfully, dear. Oh, Edith, you're looking awfully pretty; I like that hat. Look here, I promise you, dear, I'll _never_ ask you again, never as long as I live. But I've a fancy to read this particular letter. Why not just gratify it? It's a very harmless whim.'

His tone suddenly changed. 'What do you suppose there's _in_ the d.a.m.ned letter? Something you're jolly well anxious I shouldn't see.'

She made a step forward. He rushed at her, s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter out of her hand, and went to the window with it.

She went into her own room, shut the door, and threw herself on the bed, her whole frame shaking with suppressed laughter.

Bruce, alone, with trembling fingers tore open the envelope. Never in his life had he been opposed by Edith before in this way. He read these words in stereotyped writing:

_'Van will call on receipt of post-card. The Lavender Laundry hopes that you will give them a trial, as their terms are extremely mod--'_

Bruce rushed to the door and called out: