Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and sat down to toast and tea. Breakfast was not his meal. The others chattered gently while he read his letters.

“Good God!” said Mark suddenly.

There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. “I beg your pardon, Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty.”

Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it herself, particularly at rehearsals.

“I say, Cay!” He was frowning to himself⁠—annoyed, puzzled. He held up a letter and shook it. “Who do you think this is from?”

Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged his shoulders. How could he possibly guess?

“Robert,” said Mark.

“Robert?” It was difficult to surprise Cayley. “Well?”