Mr. Newthorpe seldom interrupted his niece's monologue, but his eye often rested upon her, seemingly in good-natured speculation, and he bent his head acquiescingly when she put in a quick 'Don't you think so?' after a running series of comments on some matter which smacked exceedingly of the town. He was not more than five-and-forty, yet had thin, grizzled hair, and a sallow face with lines of trouble deeply scored upon it. His costume was very careless—indeed, all but slovenly—and his attitude in the chair showed, if not weakness of body, at all events physical indolence.
Some word that fell from Paula prompted him to ask:
'I wonder where Egremont is?'
Annabel, who had been sunk in thought, looked up with a smile. She was about to say something, but her cousin replied rapidly:
'Oh, Mr. Egremont is in London—at least, he was a month ago.'
'Not much of a guarantee that he is there now,' Mr. Newthorpe rejoined.
'I'll drop him a line and see,' said Paula. 'I meant to do so yesterday, but forgot. I'll write and tell him to send me a full account of himself. Isn't it too bad that people don't write to me? Everybody forgets you when you're out of town in the season. Now you'll see I shan't have a single letter again this morning; it is the cruellest thing!'
'But you had a letter yesterday, Paula,' Annabel remarked.
'A letter? Oh, from mamma; that doesn't count. A letter isn't a letter unless you feel anxious to see what's in it. I know exactly all that mamma will say, from beginning to end, before I open the envelope. Not a scrap of news, and with her opportunities, too! But I can count on Mr. Egremont for at least four sides—well, three.'
'But surely he is not a source of news?' said her uncle with surprise.