On the table by Mary's plate was a letter, the sole letter. It had come
by the second post. The contents of the first post had been perused in
bed. While Mary was scraping porridge off the younger George's bib with
a spoon, and wiping porridge out of his eyes with a serviette, George
the elder gave just a glance at the letter.
"So he has written after all!" said George, in a voice that tried to be
nonchalant.
"Who?" asked Mary, although she had already seen the envelope, and knew
exactly what George meant. And her voice also was unnatural in its
attempted casualness.
"The old cock," said George, beginning to serve bacon.
"Oh!" said Mary, coming to her chair, and beginning to dispense tea.
She was dying to open the letter, yet she poured out the tea with
superhuman leisureliness, and then indicated to Georgie exactly where to
search for bits of porridge on his big plate, while George with a great
appearance of calm unfolded a newspaper. Then at length she did open the
letter. Having read it, she put her lips tighter together, nodded, and
passed the letter to George. And George read:
"DEAR MARY,--I cannot accede to your request.
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