So day after day Cecil passed in the smoking-room, only hurrying out for a short drive or constitutional; and half-repaid by the gloomy complaint, "How long yon have been!" when she re-entered.
Du Meresq's correspondence, too, as we have before hinted, was not calming. A half-indignant letter from a friend whose temporary accommodation had not been repaid, a bill at three months wanting renewing, a tailor threatening the extremest rigours of the law, and similar literature, familiar to a distressed man, was punctually brought by the Post-office orderly for his delectation.
"You seem interested, Cecil," said he, as, with the uncerimoniousness of a trusted confidante, she glanced through the variations of the same text. "Do you young ladies ever get up behind each other, and back each other's bills?"
"You haven't opened some, Bertie; and they are not all bills."
"You can, if it amuses you," hobbling across the room. "Why, Cecil, my foot is almost sound again. We'll drive somewhere this afternoon, anyhow."
"See what the doctor says. Look here, Bertie, here's a letter marked private, so I didn't go on."
"Where did you find that? I never saw it." As he read, his brow grew dark, and he pondered several minutes; while Cecil, devoured with curiosity, and half-apprehensive of evil, remained silent.
"Will you get me a railway-guide, Cecil? There's one in the dining-room."
She complied, most unwillingly.
"Are you really going, Bertie?"