Jerrold was silent.
Presently he said, "She wants Sutton's farm. Sutton's dying. I shall give it to her when he's dead."
"You think that'll make up?"
"No, Colin, I don't. Supposing we don't talk about it any more."
"All right. I say, when's Maisie coming home?"
"God only knows. I don't."
He wondered how much Colin knew.
iii
February had gone. They were in the middle of March, and still Maisie had not come back.
She wrote sweet little letters to him saying she was sorry to be so long away, but her mother wanted her to stay on another week. When Jerrold wrote asking her to come back (he did this so that he might feel that he had really played the game) she answered that they wouldn't let her go till she was rested, and she wasn't quite rested yet. Jerrold mustn't imagine she was the least bit ill, only rather tired after the winter's racketing. It would be heavenly to see him again.