“Nothing. I never heard from her again.”
“But your letter may have miscarried,—something of that sort.”
“I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history of Murray Davenport.—She was a fine young woman, as the world judges; she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines.”
“Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You remember his library—made up entirely of Scott?”
“Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of living did.”
“I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless.”
“I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short spell,' as he calls it.”
“You still keep in touch with him?” asked Larcher, in surprise.
“Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable—allowing me the use of his room to sketch in.”
“Even during his absence?”