"Yes."
"She has no one else to care about that I know of. I don't pretend to care about her—I think her an old fool."
"She isn't that, dear," said mamma, quietly.
"I wish we knew where she is now. Seriously, you ought to write to her a little oftener, dear; I wish you would."
"I'll write to her, certainly, as soon as I am a little more myself. I could not do it just to-day; I have not been very well, you know."
"Oh! my darling, I did not mean to hurry you. Of course, not till you feel perfectly well; don't suppose I could be such a monster. But—I don't want, of course, to pursue her—but there is a middle course between that and having to drop her. She really has no one else, poor old thing! to care about, or to care about her. Not that I care about her, but you're her kinswoman, and I don't see why——"
At this moment the door opened, and there entered, with the air of an assumed intimacy and a certain welcome, a person whom I little expected to see there. I saw him with a shock. It was the man with the fine eyes and great forehead, the energetic gait and narrow shoulders. The grim, mean-looking, intelligent, agreeable man of fifty, Mr. Droqville.
