But both Lady Ravensworth and the valet were well aware that this was a mere idle ceremonial which would only lead to the same ineffectual result as on the six preceding mornings—indeed, ever since the arrival of Lydia Hutchinson at the Hall. At the same time, the servant was very far from suspecting how large a share the new lady's-maid enjoyed in the relapse of his master and the increasing sorrows of his mistress.
In a few minutes Quentin returned.
"His lordship requests you, my lady, to excuse his absence," was the message which he delivered—a message as formal as the one that had evoked it.
"How is your lord this morning?" asked Adeline, with a profound sigh.
"His lordship does not appear to be improving, my lady," was the answer.
Adeline sighed once more, and remained silent.
The valet withdrew; and the unhappy lady endeavoured to eat a morsel of food: but she had no appetite—her stomach seemed to loathe all solid nourishment; and she pushed her plate from her.
She then endeavoured to while away an hour or two with the most recently published novel and the morning's newspapers; but she found her imagination ever wandering to other and sadly painful topics.
It was about mid-day, when, as she was standing listlessly at the window, which commanded a view of the park, she suddenly caught sight of a carriage that was advancing rapidly towards the mansion.
The livery of the servants belonging to it was unknown to her; and she hastily summoned a domestic to instruct him that "she was not at home to any visitors."