Again that picture of the adored Elizabeth of former days, of whose prattle her father was never weary, whose jokes were always considered so unequalled, and whose pre-eminence in favour was so allowed that her intercession and influence were always employed by the others as certain in their efficacy, rises before Jim's eyes. "They are like lovers still," continues Elizabeth softly; "it is very pretty when people are lovers still after nearly thirty years." "And you--you write letters?" "No, I do not; I have not anyone to write to." A pang of shame at his unworthy suspicion, coupled with a sense of astonishment at her simple confession of friendlessness, prevent his speaking; and it is she who goes on: "I was writing an Italian exercise; I began to learn Italian in Florence"--with the inevitable low sigh that always accompanies her mention of that name--"and to-day, for something to do, I took it up again. It has been a long day, has not it? Oh, _what_ a long day!" "_Long!_" repeats Jim emphatically; "it might choose to call itself a _day_; but many a century has been shorter." "Someone was playing battledore and shuttlecock in the hall. I wonder to what number they kept it up? how many years it is since I have played battledore and shuttlecock!" There is a suppressed envy in her tone, which tells how far from disagreeable the innocent noisy pastime to which she alludes would be to her even now. She has sat down again on the straight-backed chair from whose elevation she had commanded her Italian studies; a large grayish cloak, lined and heavily collared, and bordered with fur, hangs, unfastened at the throat, about her. Out of the dark beaver her delicate neck and head rise, like a pale primrose from out of piled dead oak-leaves in a yet wintry wood. Through the door, which he has left open behind him, come bursts of maniac mirth from the votaries of Dumb Crambo. "What a noise they are making!" "I should think they were!" "I wonder what they are doing?" "I can inform you on that point; they are playing Dumb Crambo." She repeats the words after him with a lingering intonation, in which there again is, or, at least, he thinks that he detects it, a tinge of envy. "Dumb Crambo!" "Would you like to join them?" "No"--slowly--"not quite that; but--it sounds ridiculous--but I should like to play Dumb Crambo again. We used"--in an affectionate, lingering tone--"to play it when we were children." It is the first time that she has ever voluntarily alluded to the Moat, and he calls to mind her earnest prohibition addressed to him at Florence against any mention of it. "I know you did; once or twice I played with you." "_You?_" She starts. It is evident that the unimportant fact of his having taken part in their games has quite escaped her; but, a moment later, her soft and courteous nature evidently making her fear that he will look upon her obliviousness as unkind--