When Christopher arrived in Hertford Street from Scotland a week later,
Mrs. Mitcham met him in the hall of the flat. He knew nothing of what
had happened at Chickover. Catherine had written him a brief scribble
the day she left, telling him she was going to Virginia, and as he
hadn’t had a word since, and found his holiday, which he anyhow hated,
completely intolerable directly she cut him off from her by silence, he
decided it was no longer to be endured; and flinging his things
together, and remarking to Lewes that he was fed up, he started for
London, getting there hard on the heels of a telegram he had sent Mrs.
Mitcham.
She came into the hall when she heard his latchkey in the door. Her face
looked longer than ever, and her clothes seemed blacker.
‘Oh, sir,’ she began at once, taking his coat from him, ‘isn’t it
dreadful.’
‘What is?’ asked Christopher, twisting round and looking at her, quick
fear in his heart.
‘Miss Virginia----’