"ROBERT TREVELYAN."
XI.
After Trevelyan left, the household in Aberdeen settled back again into its usual state of placidity.
The second day after his departure was threatening, and Cameron and Maggie killed time by pretending to play billiards. Malcolm Stewart had driven into the village in the morning to be gone all day; his wife was busy writing to Kenneth, her youngest son, who was tramping it through Normandy with a couple of old classmates. Cary was curled up in the window seat in the library, absently watching McGuire, the gardener, rake the path.
"Is the book so absorbing?"
Cary turned suddenly and met Stewart's laughing eyes.
"Why, I didn't know you were there!"
"So it seems. I've been sitting here for the last quarter of an hour watching you—read!"
Cary flushed.
"It's a stupid old story, anyway," she complained, tossing the book to him. "What have you been doing?"