The Silver Clasp

It was about eleven o'clock on a hot morning and Kenwardine, who had
adopted native customs, was leisurely getting his breakfast in the patio.
Two or three letters lay among the fruit and wine, but he did not mean to
open them yet. He was something of a sybarite and the letters might blunt
his enjoyment of the well-served meal. Clare, who had not eaten much, sat
opposite, watching him. His pose as he leaned back with a wineglass in
his hand was negligently graceful, and his white clothes, drawn in at the
waist by a black silk sash, showed his well-knit figure. There were
touches of gray in his hair and wrinkles round his eyes, but in spite of
this he had a look of careless youth. Clare, however, thought she noticed
a hint of preoccupation that she knew and disliked.

Presently Kenwardine picked out an envelope with a British stamp from
among the rest and turned it over before inserting a knife behind the
flap, which yielded easily, as if the gum had lost its strength. Then he
took out the letter and smiled with ironical amusement. If it had been
read by any unauthorized person before it reached him, the reader would
have been much misled, but it told him what he wanted to know. There was
one word an Englishman or American would not have used, though a Teuton
might have done so, but Kenwardine thought a Spaniard would not notice
this, even if he knew English well. The other letters were not important,
and he glanced at his daughter.