"Yes," he answered a little wearily. His mind had dwelt on Mr. Aked that day, and the lonely futility of the man's life had touched him with chill, depressing effect. Moreover, now it came to the point, he rather dreaded than desired that first interview with Adeline after her uncle's death. He feared that despite any service he had rendered, they were not much more than acquaintances. He morbidly conjectured what she would say to him and how he would reply. But he was glad when the nurse left him alone at the door of Adeline's room. He knocked rather louder than he had intended, and after hesitating a second walked in. Adeline was seated in an armchair near the window, fully dressed in black, with a shawl over her shoulders. Her back was towards him, but he could see that she was writing a letter on her knee. She looked round suddenly as the door opened, and gave a little "Oh!" at the same time lifting her hands. Her face was pale, her hair flat, and her eyes large and glittering. He went up to her. "Mr. Larch!" She held his hand in her thin white one with a soft, weak pressure, silently gazing at him while tears gathered in her upturned eyes. Richard trembled in every part of his body; he could not speak, and wondered what was the matter with him. "Mr. Larch, you have been very kind. I shall never be able to thank you." "I hope you won't bother about any thanks," he said. "Are you better?" And yet he wished her to say more. With apparent reluctance she loosed his hand, and he sat down near her. "What should I have done without you!... Tell me about to-day. You can't think how relieved I am now that it is over--the funeral, I mean." He said there was nothing to tell. "Were there many other funerals?" "Yes, a lot." He answered her questions one after another; she seemed to be interested in the least detail, but neither of them mentioned the dead man. Her eyes seldom left him. When he suggested that she must dismiss him as soon as she felt tired, she laughed, and replied that she was not likely to be tired for a very long while, and that he must have tea with her and nurse. "I was writing to my two uncles in San Francisco when you came in," she said. "They will be terribly upset about me at first, poor fellows, but I have told them how kind you have been, and Uncle Mark always used to say I had plenty of sense, so that ought to ease their minds." She smiled. "Of course you have made no definite plans yet?" he asked. "No, I sha'n't settle anything at present. I want to consult you about several things, but some other time, when I am better. I shall have enough money, I think--that is one solid comfort. My aunt Grace--Mrs. Hopkins--has asked me to go and stay with her. Somehow I don't want to go--you'll think it queer of me, I daresay, but I would really prefer to stop in London." He noticed that she said nothing as to joining her uncles in San Francisco. "I fancy I shall like London," she went on, "when I know it."