"James Wynyard, Esq., Hotel Augusta, Weissbad, etc, etc."
I felt certain it was for one of the two men at the neighbouring table,
and _almost_ certain, though I had no grounds for being so, that it was
for the elder, the father of the two young women. And even if I were
mistaken, its having been deposited on our table gave an excellent
excuse for speaking to them. Letters, as a rule, came in the morning--
English letters, that is to say--but there was a second post late in the
evening, and anything it brought was laid on the supper-tables. I
touched mother's arm and showed her the address, saying in a low voice,
"Shall I ask if it is for _them_?" when to my surprise she started.
"Wynyard?" she said, "James Wynyard! Why, that was the name of Maud
Prideaux's husband. How curious if--if it should be--"
She glanced up. Her face was aglow with excitement, as had been
Moore's. But before she finished her sentence, I saw a look of new
expectancy in her eyes, and turning in the same direction, I caught
sight of "the father," as we called him, coming towards us, a letter in
_his_ hand also, and a look of inquiry and surprise in his face.
"I think," he was beginning, as he reached our table. But mother cut
him short.
"Yes," she exclaimed, "you _are_ Mr Wynyard, and I--you must remember
me?--I am your Maud's old friend--Geraldine Terence--now Geraldine
Fitzmaurice."