‘But I value him very much—almost as much as I do Goldie—but not quite, not quite, my pet,’ she added reassuringly to the dog, lest he should be jealous. ‘I have missed him horribly; no one to tease; no one to talk nonsense with. You are so sensible that I could not afford to shock you by my absurdities; and Mr. Goring is so cynical that I fancy he is always laughing. I miss Edgar every hour of the day.’ ‘And yet——’ ‘And yet I don’t care one little straw for him—in the kind of way you care for Mr. Goring,’ said Daphne, with a sudden blush. Lina sighed and was silent. She had not abandoned all hope that Daphne would in time grow more warmly attached to the faithful swain, whose society she evidently missed sorely in these dull autumnal days, during which the only possible excitement was a box of new books from Mudie’s. ‘More “Voyages to the North Pole”; more “Three Weeks on the Top of the Biggest Pyramid”; more “Memoirs of Philip of Macedon’s Private Secretary,”’ cried Daphne, sitting on the ground beside the newly-arrived box, and tossing all the instructive books on the carpet, after a contemptuous glance at their titles. ‘Here is Browning’s new poem, thank goodness! and a novel, “My Only Jo.” Told in the first person and present tense, no doubt; nice and light and lively. I think I’ll take that and Browning, if you don’t mind, Lina; and you shall have all the Travels and Memoirs.’ With the help of novels and poetry, and long rambles even in the wild showery weather, waterproofed and booted against the storm, and wearing a neat little felt wide-awake which weather could not spoil, Daphne contrived to get through her life somehow while her faithful slave was away. Was it indeed he whom she missed so sorely? Was it his footfall which her ear knew so well; his step which quickened the beating of her heart, and brought the warm blood to her cheek? Was it his coming and going which so deeply stirred the current of her life? Life had been empty of delight for the last three weeks; but was it Edgar’s absence made the little world of South Hill so blank and dreary? In her heart of hearts Daphne knew too well that it was not. Yet Edgar had made an important element in her life. He had helped her, if not to forget, at least to banish thought. He had sympathised with all her frivolous pleasures, and made it easier for her to take life lightly. ‘If I were once to be serious I should break my heart,’ she said to herself, as she sat curled up on the fluffy white rug by one of the morning-room windows, her thoughts straying off from ‘My Only Jo,’ which was the most frothy of fashionable novels.