Part 11 (1/2)
”Only Lady Chelmer,” Amber yawned, as she broke the seal.
”Didn't I see the scrawl of the Honourable Tolly?”
”Yes, poor dear. I do so want to know if he is happy in British Honduras. But he must take his turn.”
”If he had taken his turn,” Walter laughed, ”he never would have got the appointment there.”
”No, poor dear; it was very good of you.”
”Of me?” Walter's tone was even more amused. His eyes roved round the vast drawing-room, as if with the thought that he had as little to do with its dignified grandeur. Then his gaze rested once more on his wife; she seemed a delicious harmony of silks and flowers and creamy flesh-tones.
”Mrs. Ba.s.sett,” he said softly, lingering on the proprietorial term.
”Yes, Walter,” she said, not looking up from her letter.
”Do you realise this is the first time we have been alone together this month?”
”No? Really?” She glanced up absently.
”Never mind that muddle-headed old Chelmer. I dare say she only wants another hundred or two.” He came over, took the letter and her hand with it. ”I have a great secret to tell you.”
Now he had captured her attention as well as her hand. Her eyes sparkled. ”A Cabinet Secret?” she said.
”Yes. At this moment every newspaper office is in a fever--to-morrow all England will be ringing with the news. It is a thunderbolt.”
She started up, s.n.a.t.c.hing her hand away, every nerve a-quiver with excitement. ”And you kept this from me all through dinner?”
”I hadn't a chance, darling--I came straight from the scrimmage.”
”You won't gloss it over by calling me novel names. I hate stale thunderbolts. You might have breathed a word in my ear.”
”I shall make amends by beginning with the part that is only for your ear. Do you know what next Monday is?”
”The day you address your const.i.tuents, of course. Oh, I see, this thunderbolt is going to change your speech.”
”Is going to change my speech altogether. Next Monday is the seventh anniversary of our wedding.”
”Is it? But what has that to do with your speech at Highmead?”
”Everything.” He smiled mysteriously, then went on softly, ”Amber, do you remember our honeymoon?”
She smiled faintly. ”Oh, I haven't quite forgotten.”
”If you had quite forgotten the misery of it, I should be glad.”
”I have quite forgotten.”
”You are kinder than I deserve. But I was so startled to find my career was less to you than a kiss that I was more churlish than I need have been. I even wished that you might have a child, so that you might be taken up with it instead of with me.”
She blushed. ”Yes, I dare say I showed my hand clumsily as soon as it held all the aces.”