'It is like coming home,' he says softly.
As he speaks a slight noise behind him makes him turn his head. Can it be Lily again? Lily, with more dreadful questions, more terrible invitations to draw out of her armoury of torments? But no! it is not Lily; it is only Prue. Prue, often a little out of sorts, a little sorry for herself, rising with the inevitable poetry-book in her hand, and with a look full of astonishment, from her oak settle by the fireside. He had forgotten Prue's existence.
'Mr. Talbot!' cries she; 'is it possible? I heard a man's voice; I could not imagine whose it could be. Are you staying at the Manor? Is milady back? Is there any one else there? A party?'
He laughs confusedly. 'I have no connection with milady.'
'Are you at the Hartleys' then?' (a greatly increased eagerness); 'do you know the Hartleys?'
'I have not that honour.'
'At the Evanses'? No! impossible! I cannot imagine any one in their right mind staying at the Evanses'.'
'I do not know whether I am in my right mind, but I am not at the Evanses'.'
'Where can you be then?'
'I am at the Roupell Arms.'