which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa.
"I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her.
"My friend?"
"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico."
"Wrote to you?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently.
"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end."
"Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly.
"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written."
"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?"
"It was written about you, not to you. 'Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?' he asks. 'As Mrs. Pontellier
