‘But you had a letter yesterday, Paula,’ Annabel remarked.

’A letter?  Oh, from mamma; that doesn’t count.  A letter isn’t a letter unless you feel anxious to see what’s in it.  I know exactly all that mamma will say, from beginning to end, before I open the envelope.  Not a scrap of news, and with her opportunities, too!  But I can count on Mr. Egremont for at least four sides—­well, three.’

‘But surely he is not a source of news?’ said her uncle with surprise.

’Why not?  He can be very jolly when he likes, and I know he’ll write a nice letter if I ask him to.  You can’t think how much he’s improved just lately.  He was down at the Ditchleys’ when we were there in February; he and I had ever such a time one day when the others were out hunting.  Mamma won’t let me hunt; isn’t it too bad of her?  He didn’t speak a single serious word all the morning, and just think how dry he used to be!  Of course he can be dry enough still when he gets with people like Mrs. Adams and Clara Carr, but I hope to break him of the habit entirely.’

She glanced at Annabel, and laughed merrily before raising her cup to her lips.  Mr. Newthorpe just cast a rapid eye over his daughter’s face; Annabel wore a look of quiet amusement.

‘Has he been here since then?’ Paula inquired, tapping a second egg.  ’We lost sight of him for two or three months, and of course he always makes a mystery of his wanderings.’

‘We saw him last in October,’ her uncle answered, ’when he had just returned from America.’

’He said he was going to Australia next.  By-the-by, what’s his address?  Something, Russell Street.  Don’t you know?’

‘No idea,’ he replied, smiling.

’Never mind.  I’ll send the letter to Mrs. Ormonde; she always knows where he is, and I believe she’s the only one that does.’

When the meal came to an end Mr. Newthorpe went, as usual, to his study.  Miss Tyrrell, also as usual, prepared for three hours of letter-writing.  Annabel, after a brief Consultation with Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, would ordinarily have sat down to study in the morning room.  She laid open a book on the table, but then lingered between that and the windows.  At length she took a volume of a lighter kind—­in both senses—­and, finding her garden hat in the hall, went forth.

She was something less than twenty, and bore herself with grace perchance a little too sober for her years.  Her head was wont to droop thoughtfully, and her step measured itself to the grave music of a mind which knew the influence of mountain solitude.  But her health was complete; she could row for long stretches, and on occasion fatigued her father in rambles over moor and fell.  Face and figure were matched in mature beauty; she had dark hair, braided above the forehead on each side, and large dark eyes which regarded you with a pure intelligence, disconcerting if your word uttered less than sincerity.