'Oh, you're not! It sounded a little like it.'

'But it isn't. I don't _mind_ all this responsibility, but I ought, at
least, to be allowed to read my letters.'

'Well, darling, you shall, as a rule. Look here, old girl, you shall. I
promise you, faithfully, dear. Oh, Edith, you're looking awfully
pretty; I like that hat. Look here, I promise you, dear, I'll _never_
ask you again, never as long as I live. But I've a fancy to read this
particular letter. Why not just gratify it? It's a very harmless whim.'
His tone suddenly changed. 'What do you suppose there's _in_ the damned
letter? Something you're jolly well anxious I shouldn't see.'

She made a step forward. He rushed at her, snatched the letter out of
her hand, and went to the window with it.

She went into her own room, shut the door, and threw herself on the
bed, her whole frame shaking with suppressed laughter.

* * * * *

Bruce, alone, with trembling fingers tore open the envelope. Never in
his life had he been opposed by Edith before in this way. He read these
words in stereotyped writing:

_'Van will call on receipt of post-card. The Lavender Laundry hopes
that you will give them a trial, as their terms are extremely mod--'_

Bruce rushed to the door and called out: