It was one evening when Mrs. Wilton was occupied in answering a long letter from Ada, filled with glowing descriptions of Cannes and the happy life she was leading there, that Salome went into the dining-room where Reginald was at work. The finished manuscript was in her hand, and she said, "Reg, where do you advise me to send my story? I have finished it, every word."
Reginald was absorbed in his Euclid, and held up his hand, as if to beg her to stop.
"Are you very busy?" she said. "Then I won't trouble you."
Still there was the thought in her heart, "How nice it would be if somebody cared." But she waited patiently, and at last Reginald pushed the books away, and giving a prolonged yawn, said,—
"It is awfully cold here with no fire. What do you want, Sal?"
"Reg, do come and work in the drawing-room. The children are gone to bed, and mother and I are as quiet as mice."
"Raymond is not there, of course."
"No," said Salome, "and I can't think what he does every evening. He goes off directly after tea, and he is so late every night now. Reg, do you know where he goes?"
"I don't know," said Reginald, "but I don't think things are all square with him. But, you see, Raymond and I have never had much to do with each other, going to different schools, and he has always looked down on me."
"I hope he has not bad friends," Salome said; "but I am certain he was with some one he did not care for you and me to see that evening when I had been up to the vicarage, the day it was fixed for Ada to go to Cannes."