The Postmaster of Market Deignton by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Lady Deignton is sitting with her back to me, writing. She does not look up at my entrance, nor take any notice of my respectful greeting. So far I have no clue as to how she intends to receive me. Not that I am very anxious about it. If I have any preference at all, I would rather it were open war between us. All that I ask is to have my hands free to strike. She and I have drifted apart now, and between us lies the gulf of those bitter words, and her scornful dismissal of me from Deignton Court. I want no bridge across that gulf. As things are, so would I rather they remained. What her visit here to-day bodes I cannot tell.

I notice that David has his hat on, and is standing before Lady Deignton in an expectant attitude. From the fact that his eyes are fixed upon the note which she appears to be writing, I conclude that he is to be her messenger. I am not supposed to know this, however, and I question him a little sharply: