This morning, Signor Ricordo lay back in his chair, smoking a cheroot. As usual, his eyes were nearly closed, and the same look of cynical melancholy rested on his face. Once or twice he picked up the previous day's paper, only to throw it aside. Evidently he had but little interest in the affairs of the country. Presently he lifted his head quickly, and saw the village postman coming towards him.
"Mornin', sur."
"Good-morning, Beel. Got some letters for me?"
"Sever'l, sur. 'Ere you be."
"Thank you."
The postman left him, and made his way towards the house.
For a time he sat deep in thought, not referring to the letters, but his face gave no indication as to whether his thoughts were pleasant or otherwise. It was as expressionless as the face of the sphinx. After a time he turned to the letters and glanced at them carelessly. At length, however, his eyes showed a glow of interest. He tore open one of the letters and read it almost eagerly:
"Dear Signor Ricordo,—At last I am able to accept your kind invitation, and by the time you get this I shall be on my way to Vale Linden. As I am starting by an early train I shall arrive at the station by one o'clock. I am simply longing to be amidst the beautiful scenery which you describe so eloquently, and more than all to have a long chat with you. All news when we meet.—Yours,
"A. Winfield."
"P.S.—I shall lunch in the train."
Certainly there was nothing in the letter of a striking nature, yet Ricordo walked up and down the lawn like one greatly moved.
"It is coming, it is coming," he repeated more than once.