had not stayed
after luncheon, being at times nervously afraid of giving her too much
of his society; and she was at liberty to read over again, if she chose,
the solitary letter which the Sunday post had brought her. But she did
not do so; she was thinking.

And so her sister Anna was actually returning to England at last! She
and her husband had taken a house in Rome, and had arranged that Ruth
should join them in London in November, and go abroad with them after
Christmas for the remainder of the winter. She had pleasant
recollections of previous winters in Rome, or, on the Riviera with her
grandmother, and she was surprised that she did not feel more interested
in the prospect. She supposed she would like it when the time came, but
she seemed to care very little about it at the present moment. It had
become very natural to live at Slumberleigh, and although there were
drawbacks--here she glanced involuntarily at her aunt, who was making
her slumbers vocal by a running commentary on them through her
nose--still she would be sorry to go. Mr. Alwynn gave the ghost of a
miniature snore, and, opening his eyes, found Ruth bent affectionately
upon him. Her mind went back to another point in Anna's letter. After
dilating on the extreme admiration and regard entertained for herself by
her husband, his readiness with shawls, etc., she went on to ask whether
Ruth had heard any news of Raymond.

Ruth sighed. Would there ever be any news of Raymond? The old nurse at
Arleigh always asked the same question. "Any news of Master Raymond?" It
was with a tired ache of the heart that Ruth heard that question, and
always gave the same answer. Once she had heard from him since Lady
Deyncourt's death, after she had written to tell him, as gently as she
could, that she and Anna had inherited all their grandmother had to
leave. A couple of months later she had received a hurried note in
reply, inveighing against Lady Deyncourt's injustice, saying (as usual)
that he was hard up for money, and that, when he knew where it might
safely be sent, he should expect her and her sister to make up to him
for his disappointment. And since then, since April--not a word. June,
July, August, September. Four months and no sign. When he was in want of
money his letters heretofore had made but little delay. Had he fallen
ill and died out there, or met his death suddenly, perhaps in some wild
adventure under an assumed name? Her lips tightened, and her whit