It was not until some weeks later that Honora was seated one afternoon in the study waiting for him to come in, and sorting over some of the letters that they had not yet examined, when she came across a new lot thrust carelessly at the bottom of the older pile.  She undid the elastic.  Tucked away in one of the envelopes she was surprised to find a letter of recent date—­October.  She glanced at it, read involuntarily the first lines, and then, with a little cry, turned it over.  It was from Cecil Grainger.  She put it back into the envelope whence it came, and sat still.

After a while, she could not tell how long, she heard Hugh stamping the snow from his feet in the little entry beside the study.  And in a few moments he entered, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the blaze.

“Hello, Honora,” he said; “are you still at it?  What’s the matter—­a hitch?”

She reached mechanically into the envelope, took out the letter, and handed it to him.

“I found it just now, Hugh.  I didn’t read much of it—­I didn’t mean to read any.  It’s from Mr. Grainger, and you must have overlooked it.”

He took it.

“From Cecil?” he said, in an odd voice.  “I wasn’t aware that he had sent me anything-recently.”

As he read, she felt the anger rise within him, she saw it in his eyes fixed upon the sheet, and the sense of fear, of irreparable loss, that had come over her as she had sat alone awaiting him, deepened.  And yet, long expected verdicts are sometimes received in a spirit of recklessness:  He finished the letter, and flung it in her lap.

“Read it,” he said.

“Oh, Hugh!” she protested tremulously.  “Perhaps—­perhaps I’d better not.”  He laughed, and that frightened her the more.  It was the laugh, she was sure, of the other man she had not known.

“I’ve always suspected that Cecil was a fool—­now I’m sure of it.  Read it!” he repeated, in a note of command that went oddly with his next sentence; “You will find that it is only ridiculous.”

This assurance of the comedy it contained, however, did not serve to fortify her misgivings.  It was written from a club.

“Dear Hugh:  Herewith a few letters for the magnum opus which I have extracted from Aunt Agatha, Judge Gaines, and others, and to send you my humble congratulations.  By George, my boy, you have dashed off with a prize, and no mistake.  I’ve never made any secret, you know, of my admiration for Honora—­I hope I may call her so now.  And I just thought I’d tell you you could count on me for a friend at court.  Not that I’m any use now, old boy.  I’ll have to be frank with you—­I always was.  Discreet silence, and all that sort of thing:  as much as my head is worth to open my mouth.  But I had an idea it would be an act of friendship to let you know how things stand.  Let time and works speak, and Cecil will give the thing a push at the proper moment.  I understand from