"Yes," she assented, languidly. "I met no one, saw no one, while I was out. Here comes your shadow," she added, as Tiny, having heard his beloved master's voice, came helter-skelter, head over heels, and leapt on Stafford's lap. "How fond he is of you."
Stafford nodded.
"Yes; I'm jolly glad no one answered the advertisement for its owner."
She bent over and stroked the terrier, who always seemed uneasy under her caress, and her hand touched Stafford's. She glanced at him as it did so, but the white hand so soft and warm might have been a piece of senseless wood for all its effect upon him whose soul was still thrilling with Ida Heron's touch; and with a tightening of the lips, she took her hand away and leant back, but her eyes still clung to him, as, all unconscious, he bent over the dog.
At that moment a carriage drove up, and Mr. Falconer alighted. He came up the steps, his heavy face grave and yet alert; and his keen eyes glanced at the pair as they sat side by side. Stafford looked up and nodded.
"Glad to see you back, Mr. Falconer," he said, pleasantly. "Stands
London where it did?"
"Pretty much so, yes," responded Mr. Falconer, grimly. "Yes, plenty of other thing change, have their day and cease to be, but the little village keeps its end up and sees things—and men—come and go, flare up, flicker and fizzle out. No, thanks; I'll have some tea in my room."
"And like a dutiful daughter, I will go and pour it out for him," said
Maude.
She rose—Tiny rose also, and barked at her—followed her father to his room and stood watching him as he took off his frock-coat—he had no valet—and slowly put on a loose jacket.
"Well?" she said, at last.