III
“Ah,—you see!”
Pontycroft after Ruth's departure ponderated thus on the tone of significance, to his sister. “Ah, ha! You see.... She's eager for news. She's expecting something.... She's on the watch for every post.”
“You're quite off the scent, Harry,” returned his sister languidly. Lucilla, it was plain, was still disturbed by her brother's chaff.
“It's her uncle's semi-annual missive she's so eagerly on the lookout for. The child nourishes a perfect hero-worship for the old man; she writes to him six times to his one. His letters come with military precision, once in a six month. They're invariably brief, and they invariably wind up with this hospitable apophthegm, 'Remember the string's on the latchet of the door whenever you choose to pull it. Whenever you care to look upon your home in Oldbridge you will find a hearty welcome from your affectionate uncle,' then a sabre thrust, his name,—presumably.”
Lucilla rose, with that languid grace she was so famous for. She went to the edge of the terrace and leaned upon the balustrade, where she remained, silently taking in her fill of the peaceful landscape.