r the old familiar name,
and then the light went out of them. "I don't know," she said, abruptly.
"Phil was to come; if he will not, I think I will not either. But I will
say nothing till I make sure."

"Of course your first duty is to him," said John; "but a day now or a
day then interferes with nothing, and the country would be good for you,
Elinor. Doesn't your husband see it? You are not looking like yourself."

"Not like myself? I might easily look better than myself. I wish I
could. I am not so bigoted about myself."

"Your friends are, however," he said: "no one who cares for you wants to
change you, even for another Elinor. Come, you are nervous altogether
to-night, not like yourself, as I told you. You always so courageous and
bright! This depressed state is not one of your moods. London is too
much for you, my little Nelly."

"Your little Nellie has gone away somewhere John. I doubt if she'll ever
come back. Yes, London is rather too much for me, I think. It's such a
racket, as Phil says. But then he's used to it, you know. He was brought
up to it, whereas I--I think I hate a racket, John--and they all like it
so. They prefer never having a moment to themselves. I daresay one
would end by being just the same. It keeps you from thinking, that is
one very good thing."

"You used not to think so, Elinor."

"No," she said, "not at the Cottage among the flowers, where nothing
ever happened from one year's end to another. I should die of it now in
a week--at least if not I, those who belong to me. So on the whole
perhaps London is the safest--unless Phil will go."

"I can only hope you will be able to persuade him," said John, rising to
go away, "for whatever you may think, you are a country bird, and you
want the fresh air."

"Are you going, John? Well, perhaps it is better. Good-by. Don't trouble
your mind about me whether I go or stay."

"Do you mean I am not to come again, Elinor?"

"Oh, why should I mean that?" she said. "You are so hard upon me in your
thoughts;" but she did not say that he was wrong, and John went out from
the door saying to himself that he would not go again. He saw through
the open door of the dining-room that the table was prepared sumptuously
for a dinner-party. It was shining with silver and crystal, the silver
Mrs. Dennistoun's old service, which she had brought up with her from
Windyhill, and which as a matter of convenience she had left behind with
her daughter. Would it e