And, as she did, there came a knock upon the door; and we both jumped. I stepped away. It was one of the parlourmaids. She had a letter on a tray. ''For Miss Maud,'' she said, with a curtsey. I looked at the hand, and knew at once that it must be Gentleman''s. My heart gave a dip. So did Maud''s, I think.
''Bring it here, will you?'' she said. And then: ''Will you pass me my shawl, also?'' The flush had gone from her face, though her cheek was still red where I had pressed it. When I put the shawl across her shoulders, I felt her trembling.
I watched her then, seeming not to, as I moved about her rooms, taking up books and cushions, putting away the thimble and closing her box. I saw her turn the letter and fumble with it—of course, she could not tear the paper, with her gloves on. So then she sneaked a look at me, and then she lowered her hands and—still trembling,
but making a show of carelessness, that was meant to say it was nothing to her, yet showed that it was everything—she unbuttoned one glove and put her finger to the seal, then drew the letter from the envelope and held it in her naked hand and read it.
Then she let out her breath in a single great sigh. I picked up a cushion and hit the dust from it.