AC dBooks

"I'm think of writing a letter to your father, and sending Hobson with
it in the car immediately. Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Well, you know what your father is. Unless I'm much mistaken he's not a
man to have much patience with your semi-romantic, semi-religious
sentiments. Are you quite satisfied?"
"Quite."
"Very well! That's what I'll do, then."
After this there was a period of quiet in which I assumed that my
husband was writing his letter. Then I heard a bell ring somewhere in
the corridor, and shortly afterwards there was a second voice in the
sitting-room, but I could not hear the words that were spoken. I suppose
it was Hobson's low voice, for after another short interval of silence
there came the thrum and throb of a motor-car and the rumble of
india-rubber wheels on the wet gravel of the courtyard in front of the
hotel.
Then my husband knocked at my door again.
"I've written that letter and Hobson is waiting to take it. Your father
will probably get it before he goes to bed. It will be a bad break on
the festivities he was preparing for the village people.


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