It is at the breakfast-table next morning that this question and answer are exchanged. They are the result of the wire which has just been handed to Lavinia, and which she continues looking at, long after she must have mastered its contents--so long that the hostess’s curiosity conquers her good breeding, and makes her take for granted sender and subject. “Does Mr. Rupert say by what train he and Sir George are returning?” There is a pause, though slightly perceptible. “They cannot get back to-day; the papers were not ready for their signature, after all.” “The law’s delay! We all know something about that,” says Mr. Prince, looking up with a smile of elaborate sympathy from his porridge. “Will legislation ever effect anything towards----?” “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” cries Mrs. Prince, cutting ruthlessly into her husband’s speculation. “Since there is nobody to go back to, what sense is there in your going back?” * * * * * “I have only _one_ little hint to give you, dear,” says Mrs. Prince, escorting her visitor to the wounded man’s door, and in a tone tinged with apology; “but you know what an impracticable patient Féo is, and we must give in to sick people’s whims, as she was always impressing upon us about Captain Binning.” “Yes?” “Well, dear, it is too silly and exacting of her; but she complains that there were three quarters of an hour between your first and second visits to her yesterday, and forty-five minutes between your second and third.” “Were there?” rather blankly. “If the same thing happens to-day, she threatens to get up and go and see for herself what’s happening. Dr. Roots tells her he will not answer for the consequences if she does; but she snaps her fingers at him. However,” with reassurance, “my one confidence is in her _colour_!” * * * * * They meet without the elation of yesterday, their eyes shirking each other, and their hands taking for granted that contact is superfluous. Half a score of subjects had yesterday succeeded her refusal of his suggested gift; but the sting of that rebuff still inflames their memories. “This is an uncovenanted mercy!” he says, with a rather strained smile. “I was afraid that I had seen the last of you.” “I heard from my people, that they cannot get back to-day.” “So you stay here?” “Yes.” There is a lifelessness in the little dialogue, she expressing no regret, and he no gladness. When the eyes, dropped upon her work--she had no work yesterday--give him an opportunity of covert observation, he sees that her large eyelids look thickened as if with tears or watching. “The law is a very odd thing, isn’t it?” she says presently in a staccato key. “I have never had many dealings with it.” “It is the only vehicle to which civilization has not given C-springs and indiarubber tires. It still jolts and lumbers along as it did three hundred years ago.”