“Very likely,” said Raymond; “my mother only writes with difficulty, so I hear little when I am from home.”
“Is it true that they are horrid people, very dissipated, and not fit for me to associate with?”
“That is putting it strongly,” said Raymond, quietly. “They are not likely to be very desirable acquaintances for you, but there is no reason you should not associate with them on ordinary terms of courtesy.”
“Ah! I understand—as member’s wife.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Raymond. “Ah! Rosamond!” as she came down in a Galway cloak over her black velveteen, “on the way to view your domain?”
“Yes, and yours,” she said, nodding to Cecil. “You appreciate such English apple-pie order. It looks as if you never suffered a stray leaf to dance without an old woman to hunt it down. And what’s that red house smiling across the valley?”
“Sirenwood,” repeated Raymond; then to Julius he said, “Did you know it was inhabited again?”
“Frank said so,” answered Julius, without further remark, giving his arm to his wife, who clasped both hands on it; while the other couple looked on as if doubtful whether this were a trying duty incumbent on them.
“What is it all about?” said Rosamond, as they walked down the avenue of walnuts leading to the iron gates in the opposite direction from Sirenwood. “Which of you was that woman’s victim? Was it a sailor love of Miles’s? I hope not! That poor little African might not stand a gay ghost cropping up again.”
“Miles is far removed from the conventional sailor.”