"Why don't you write?" he said.
"There's nothing to write about. I do not correspond with them," said Rupert, actually colouring a little beneath Hugo's long, satirical gaze. "But I fancy they may think me neglectful. I promised some time ago that I would run down; and I don't see how I can—until November, at the earliest. And, if you are there, you may as well mention the reason for my going to Wales, or, you see, it will look like a positive slight."
"I'm to say all this to Mrs. Heron, am I? And to no one beside?"
"That will be quite sufficient." There was a slight touch of hauteur in Vivian's tone. "And, if I may trouble you with something else——"
"No trouble at all. Another message?"
"Not exactly. If you would take care of this little packet for me I should be glad. I am afraid of its being crushed or lost in the post. It is for Miss Heron."
He produced a little parcel, carefully sealed and addressed. It looked like a small, square box. Hugo smiled as he took it in his hand.
"Perishable?" he asked, carelessly.
"Not exactly. The contents are fully a hundred years old already. It is something for Miss Heron's birthday. She is a great favourite of mine—a nice little girl."
"Quite a child, I suppose?"