Mrs. Grampound did not answer, and her brother, considering that he had made his sacrifice on the altar of conversation, relapsed into silence again.
Perhaps the obvious inference that the summer had been hot reminded her that the day was also hot, for in a minute or two she said,—
"Dear Eva! what a stifling journey she will have. She comes back to-night; she ought to be here by now."
"Where has she been staying?"
"At the Brabizons. Lord Hayes was there. He comes home at the end of the week; his mother arrived yesterday."
"The old witch," murmured Mr. Martin.
"Yes, but very old," said she, whose mind was apparently performing obligato variations on the theme of the conversation. "Haven't you noticed—"
She broke off, and presumably continued the obligato variations.
Mr. Martin showed no indications of having noticed anything at all, and the faint sounds of the summer evening pursued their whisperings unchecked until the distant rumble of carriage wheels began to overscore the dim noises, and came to a long pause, after a big crescendo, before the front door.
"That will be Eva," said her mother, filling up the teapot; "they will tell her we are here."