A telegram arrived in the evening. Belinda sat on the edge of the faded chintz sofa in her parlour, staring at the envelope on her knees yet keeping her right hand poised above it as if it were a butterfly about to take to the air. She couldn't bring herself to open it, not straight away. She couldn't touch it either.

She gazed outside . . . the man who delivered the telegram had left the screen door open and a hot gust of wind was rattling it against the outside wall of the house. It was already dark, and from her lighted parlor she could see nothing through the doorway. Just heat and dark. She finally lowered her hand and picked up the buff envelope with "On His Majesty's Service" printed across the top. After knocking it twice on its edge against her knee, she tore a thin strip off the top.

Dear Miss McCulloch,