“He is out of town?”

The servant thought so; he had not been at the house for two days.

“You are unable to tell me when he will return?”

Mr. Elgar was often away for a day or two, but not for longer than that.  The probability was that he would, at all events, look in before evening, though he might go away again.

Miriam left a card—­which the servant inspected with curiosity before the door was closed—­and turned to depart.  It was raining, and very windy.  She had to walk some distance before she could find a conveyance, and all the way she suffered from a painful fluttering of the heart, an agitation like that of fear.  All night she had wished she had never returned to England, and now the wish became a dread of remaining.

By the last post that evening came a note from Reuben.  He wrote in manifest hurry, requesting her to come again next morning; he would have visited her himself, but perhaps she had not a separate sitting-room, and he preferred to talk with her in privacy.

So in the morning she again went to Belsize Park.  This time the servant was a little tidier, and behaved more conventionally.  Miriam was conducted to the library, where Reuben awaited her.

They examined each other attentively.  Miriam was astonished to find her brother looking at least ten years older than when she last saw him; he was much sparer in body, had duller eyes and, it seemed to her, thinner hair.

“But why didn’t you write sooner to let me know you were coming?” was his first exclamation.

“I supposed you knew from Cecily.”

“I haven’t heard from her since the letter in which she told me she had got to Rome.  She said you would be coming soon, but that was all.  I don’t understand this economy of postage!”

He grew more annoyed as he spoke.  Meeting Miriam’s eye, he added, in the tone of explanation: 

“It’s abominable that you should come here all the way from Chelsea, and be turned away at the door!  What did the servant tell you?”

“Only that your comings and goings were very uncertain,” she replied, looking about the room.

“Yes, so they are.  I go now and then to a friend’s in Surrey and stop overnight.  One can’t live alone for an indefinite time.  But sit down.  Unless you’d like to have a look at the house, first of all?”

“I’ll sit a little first.”

“This is my study, when I’m working at home,” Reuben continued, walking about and handling objects, a book, or a pen, or a paper-knife.  “Comfortable, don’t you think?  I want to have another bookcase over there.  I haven’t worked here much since Cecily has been away; I have a great deal of reading to do at the Museum, you know.—­You look a vast deal better, Miriam.  What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.  Most likely I shall continue to live with the Spences.”

“You wouldn’t care to come here?”