So the days went on till it was the middle of September, and life was beginning to quicken in the great city.
One sultry afternoon, the Lorimers were gathered in the sitting-room; both windows stood open, admitting the hot, still, autumnal air; every sound in the street could be distinctly heard.
Lucy sat apart, deep in a voluminous letter on foreign paper which had come for her that morning, and which she had been too busy to read before. Phyllis was at the table, yawning over a copy of The Woodcut; which was opened at a page of engravings headed: "The War in Africa; from sketches by our special artist." Gertrude sewed by the window, too tired to think or talk. Now and then she glanced across mechanically to the opposite house, whence in these days of dreariness, no picturesque, impetuous young man was wont to issue; from whose upper windows no friendly eyes gazed wistfully across.
The rooms above the auctioneer's had, in fact, a fresh occupant; an ex-Girtonian without a waist, who taught at the High School for girls hard-by.
The Lorimers chose to regard her as a usurper; and with the justice usually attributed to their sex, indulged in much sarcastic comment on her appearance; on her round shoulders and swinging gait; on the green gown with balloon sleeves, and the sulphur-coloured handkerchief which she habitually wore.
Presently Lucy looked up from her letter, folded it, sighed, and smiled.
"What has your special artist to say for himself?" asked Phyllis, pushing away The Woodcut.
"He writes in good spirits, but holds out no prospect of the war coming to an end. He was just about to go further into the interior, with General Somerset's division. Mr. Steele of The Photogravure, with whom he seems to have chummed, goes too," answered Lucy, putting the letter into her pocket.
"Perhaps his sketches will be a little livelier in consequence. They are very dull this week."
Phyllis rose as she spoke, stretching her arms above her head. "I think I will go and dine with Fan. She is such fun."