Bills, a communication from his agent at Etchingham, a note from his man of affairs in Cairo, and--hullo!--a letter from his brother, Harwich!
That did not promise him much pleasure. Already he had received several family letters scarcely rejoicing in his marriage. They had not bothered him as much as he had formerly feared they would. He did not expect his relations, or the world, to look at things with his eyes, to think of Ruby with gentleness or even forgiveness for her past. He knew his world too well to make preposterous mental demands upon it. But Harwich had already expressed himself with his usual freedom. There seemed no particular reason why he should write so soon again.
Nigel tore open the letter, read it quickly, re-read it, then laid it down upon his knees, pulled his linen hat over his eyes, and sat for a long while quite motionless, thinking.
His brother's letter informed him that his sister-in-law, Zoe, Harwich's wife, had given birth to twin children--sons--and that they were "stunningly well--hip, hip, hooray!"
Harwich's boisterous joy was very natural, and might be supposed to spring from paternal feelings that did him honour, but there was a note of triumph in his exultation which Nigel understood, and which made him thoughtful now. Harwich was glorying in the fact that Nigel and Nigel's wife were cut out of the succession--that, so far as one could see, Mrs. Armine would now never be Lady Harwich.
For himself Nigel did not care at all. Harwich was ten years older than he was, but he had never thought about succeeding him, had never wished to succeed him, and when he had married Ruby he had known that his sister-in-law was going to have a child. He had known this, but he had not told it to Ruby. He had not concealed it; simply, it had not occurred to him to tell her. Now the tone of Harwich's letter was making him wonder, "Will she mind?"
Presently he heard her coming into the room behind him, crossing it, stepping out upon the terrace.
"Nigel! Are you asleep?"
"Asleep!" he said. "At this hour!"
For once there was an unnatural sound in his voice, a note of carelessness that was forced. He jumped up from his chair, scattering his letters on the ground.
"You haven't read your letters all this time!"
"Not yet; not all of them, at least," he said, bending to pick them up. "I've been reading one from my brother, Harwich."
"From Lord Harwich?" She sent a sharp look to him. "Is it bad news? Is Lord Harwich ill?"