Mrs. Lessingham showed surprise, and noticed that Cecily kept glancing over the columns of a newspaper she had carelessly taken up.

“At Pompeii?”

“Yes; in the Street of Tombs.  For some reason, he had delayed on his journey.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why?”

“Delay is one of his characteristics, isn’t it?” returned the elder lady, with unaccustomed tartness.  “A minor branch of the root of inefficiency.”

“I am afraid so.”

Cecily laughed, and began to read aloud an amusing passage from the paper.  Her aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought Mrs. Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject.  Mrs. Bradshaw allowed herself no conjectures; in her plain way she merely confirmed what Cecily had said, adding that Elgar had taken leave of them at the railway-station.

“Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that her brother would be there?” surmised Mrs. Lessingham, as though the point were of no moment.

“Oh no! not a bit.  She was astonished.”

“Or seemed so,” was Mrs. Lessingham’s inward comment, as she smiled acquiescence.  “He has impressed me agree ably,” she continued, “but there’s a danger that he will never do justice to himself.”

“I don’t put much faith in him myself,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning nothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben a ne’er-do-well.  The same words would have expressed her lack of confidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion.

Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, and grew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude.  Cecily was more than ever unlike herself—­whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at an unexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a few minutes.  Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her retirement for the night.

“Let me feel your pulse,” said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when the girl approached her.

Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.

“My child, you are feverish.”

“A little, I believe, aunt.  It will pass by the morning.”

“Let us hope so.  But I don’t like that kind of thing at Naples.  I trust you haven’t had a chill?”

“Oh dear, no!  I never was better in my life!”

“Yet with fever?  Go to bed.  Very likely I shall look into your room in the night.—­Cecily!”

It stopped her at her door.  She turned, and took a step back.  Mrs. Lessingham moved towards her.

“You haven’t forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?”

“Forgotten?  No, dear aunt.”

“It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying something a little while ago, and I interrupted you.”

“No.  Good night.”