"I did not know your address. That it was somewhere in or near London, I did know, but not the exact locality. The letter contains only a request that you would kindly come down to me here."
"I!" exclaimed Edina.
"Yes. I wanted to see you. But I will ring for my housekeeper to show you to a room where you can take your bonnet off.
"I have not come to remain," replied Edina. "Half-an-hour will be more than enough to transact my business with you.
"But half-an-hour will not transact mine with you. Remain the day with me," he pleaded, "and enliven a poor invalid for a short time." And Edina made no further objection.
When she returned to the room, looking cool and fresh in her summer muslin, old though it might be, with her brown hair braided from her pleasant face, and the brown eyes sweet and earnest as of yore, George Atkinson thought how little, how very little she was altered. It is these placid faces that do not change. Neither had he changed very much. He looked ill, and wore a beard now; a silky brown beard; but his face and eyes and voice were the same. And somehow, now that she was in his presence, heard that musical voice, and met the steadfast, kindly look in the grey eyes, she almost forgot her resentment against him for his conduct to the Raynors.
"You are a governor of Christ's Hospital, I believe," she began, entering upon her business at once as she resumed her seat.
"I am."
"I came here to ask for your next presentation to it. Is it promised?"
"Not yet. It falls due next year."