“Only five? I thought it was longer.” He began to ask about the journey, the date of her arrival, all the conventional questions relating to the circumstances, in the midst of which, as Rose observed, he had apparently forgotten a greeting to his wife. He turned to her at last.
“Well, dear! I’m rather late.” He put some letters on the tea-table. “The post’s in. I found these in the hall.”
Cecily took them up, and began to open the envelopes.
“May I, Rose?” she murmured, absently.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Summers,” urged Kingslake, “we need not go in for ten minutes.”
He seated himself also as she complied, and while he continued the desultory conversation he had begun with her, Rose noticed that he glanced every now and then at his wife, who was deep in her letters.
At first sight he was not much altered. He was still the good-looking, rather picturesque man she remembered; but the hint of weakness in his face was more pronounced, and the lines about his mouth had grown querulous. As she talked, Rose watched him curiously. She was wondering at the reason for the furtive looks he occasionally threw in his wife’s direction. There was a trace of anxiety in his face for which she could not account. Cecily’s correspondence lasted for some time, but at last she raised her head.
“This is quite remarkable,” she said, in a voice which struck Rose as rather clearer even than her usual clear tones. “I’ve just heard from an old school-fellow—a girl I’ve lost sight of for years.”
Mrs. Summers’ eyes flashed with sudden comprehension.
“She says she has met you, Robert,” continued Cecily, in the same tone.