“‘I am not grieving as you see; but we will not talk of Saviola; he is my husband after all, you know.’
“‘Ah!’ he said, in a sort of equivocal tone that again disturbed me.
“‘What shall you do now, Elfrida?—after leaving Geneva, I mean?’ he next inquired.
“‘I shall go at once to England, cross over to Ireland, and take up my abode at Weirdwaste, where I lived so long before that fatal visit to Brighton.’
“‘To—Weirdwaste!’ he exclaimed, in some surprise.
“‘Yes. It is a poor old manor, but it is my own property in right of my mother, and I shall come into full possession of it as soon as I am of age.’
“‘But—to that wild, dreary, solitary home, where you spent so many lonely, secluded, unhappy years. And of which you complained to your brother and myself so bitterly?’
“‘Yes. It seemed all that you have described it to be to my wilful and impatient childhood and youth, when I longed to see and know the world. I have seen and known enough, and more than enough, of the world, and now my thoughts turn to Weirdwaste and its quiet life as a haven of rest.’
“‘My poor Elfrida! You would wear your young heart out in such a solitude!’
“‘No; I would not. I should have my child to occupy and interest me; and I shall have the poor on the estate to look after.’