Returning to London by the first of June, Ada brought all her high spirits with her. With Rhoda and Hilda she was an affectionate sister, and outdid them both in mirthfulness. Rhoda had got over her long depression; she was in the habit of looking forward with a very carefully-concealed expectation to the not infrequent visits of a certain friend of her father’s, a gentleman of something less than forty, who was a widower, with one little boy of his own. This youngster occasionally accompanied his father, and received much affectionate attention from Rhoda; Hilda looked askance at the exhibition of his graces. The house in Chelsea had certainly a brighter air than of old.
On the evening of the day after her return, Ada went to walk by herself along the river. Hilda wished to accompany her, and was surprised by her friends request to be alone.
“Oh, you are thinking out another story,” Hilda exclaimed.
“Yes, I am; a very interesting one.”
Her face was very bright, but grave. She walked till the sun had set, watching the changing clouds and the gold on the river. On her way home, she paused a moment before each of the historic houses close at hand, and stood to look at the face of Thomas Carlyle, who had just been set up in effigy on the Embankment. At ten o’clock, when the sisters went up to bed, Ada knocked in her usual way at the door of Mr. Meres’ study.
Mr. Meres was reading; he welcomed her with a smile.
“Have you got Drummond’s poems?” she began by asking.
“Drummond of Hawthornden? Alas, no!”
“No matter. Mr. Vissian happened to mention him to me with some fervour.”
She was silent for a little, seemingly thinking of another matter. Then she said: