His face
was usually still and quiet; a combination of that contemplative
calm which characterises seafaring faces, and the clean-cut
immobility of a racial type developed by hereditary duties of self-
restraint and command.
He knew that there had been a battle, and, seeing the papers on the
table, his eyes asked her the inevitable question which his lips
were slow to put into words.
In reply Desiree shook her head. She looked at the papers in quick
thought. Then she withdrew from them the letter written to her by
Charles--and put the others together.
"You told me to send for you," she said in a quiet, tired voice, "if
I wanted you. You have saved me the trouble."
His eyes were hard with anxiety as he looked at her. She held the
letters towards him.
"By coming," she added, with a glance at him which took in the dust,
and the stains of salt-water on his clothes, the fatigue he sought
to conceal by a rigid stillness, and the tension that was left by
the dangers he had passed through--daring all--to come.
Seeing that he looked doubtfully at the papers, she spoke again.
"One," she said, "that one on the stained paper, is addressed to me.
You can read it--since I ask you."
The letter told him, at all events, that Charles was not killed,
and, seeing his face clear as he read, she gave an odd, curt laugh.
"Read the others," she said. "Oh! you need not hesitate. You need
not be so particular.
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