She was the only
puritanical Mallett in history, Caroline said. Oh, yes, the General
had been great at family prayers, but he was trying to make up for
lost time. It was difficult to believe that Sophia and Reginald were
the same flesh and blood.
Sophia interrupted. She was fond of Reginald, but she had no desire to
be like him, and Caroline knew he was a disgrace. They argued for some
time, and Rose closed her eyes until the talk, never really
acrimonious, drifted into reminiscences of their childhood and
Reginald's.
It was strange that they should have chosen that day to speak so much
of him, for when they reached home they found a letter addressed in an
unfamiliar hand.
'What's this?' Caroline said.
It was a thin, cheap envelope bearing a London postmark, and Caroline
drew out a flimsy sheet of paper.
'I must get my glasses,' she said. Her voice was agitated. 'No, no, I
can manage without them. The writing is immense, but faint. It's from
that woman.' She looked up, showing a face drawn and blotched with
ugly colour. 'It's to say that Reginald is dead.'
Mrs. Reginald Mallett had written the letter on the day of her
husband's funeral, and Caroline's tears for her brother were stemmed
by her indignation with his wife. She had purposely made it impossible
for his relatives to attend the ceremony.
'No,' Sophia said, 'the poor thing was distressed. We mustn't blame
her.'
'And such a letter!' Caroline flicked it with a disdainful finger.
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