And yet it was a little dreary, also, to think of the hours that remained unaccomplished--the long still evening in which there would be a little talk, very little, and the routine of dinner to go through, and the still evening after, which Lucy and she would spend together. Perhaps she would work, and Lucy read aloud; or Lucy would take to one of her many undertakings, which were of a homelier kind than Lady Curtis’s crewels, while her mother wrote. The house was very still, as it became a great house to be, lying folded in the darkness, in the great park, in the humid lawn and clouds of watery trees, without one gleam from all the windows in front to welcome anyone who, unexpected, might come out of the busy world to explore the stillness--the most unlikely thing in the world to happen; yet such things had been and, who could tell? might be. There was one event still possible, and that was the coming in of the post, which arrived after dinner, a most inappropriate moment, everybody said. Indeed, Sir John had often proposed not to send for the letters, but to leave them, when there were any, till next morning, rather than spoil the digestion of the family at such a moment. But Lady Curtis had a woman’s liking for letters, and never would hear of this. She had no experience of the letters which spoil digestion. Her milliners’ bills were no trouble to her. She had never been in debt, it is to be supposed, in her life, neither were there mysteries in her existence which she was afraid of; her letters were pleasant breaks upon the monotony, enriching the quiet of her country life; therefore she would have the post-bag brought up, whatever Sir John might say. And that night there were two letters that seemed to wake up even in the house itself something like the heart-beating that flutters in an individual bosom at sight of a long-expected communication--two letters which bore the Paris postmark, one to my lady, one to Sir John. The butler saw them at the first glance, recognising the writing of one, guessing at the other. He whispered to the housekeeper, before he went to my lady’s room with her share of the budget. “Summat from Mr. Arthur,” he whispered in her ear. “Oh, let me look,” she said. It was something to see, even the outside of the letters; and they looked at each other across that other one, and agreed in their guess as to what it was. Daly, the butler, was a man of discrimination. He knew, as well as she did, that, whereas Sir John was equally dull at all times, my lady expected the post with a thrill of nervous anxiety every night. He knew it by her eyes, by the clutch of her hand at the letters, by the inspection, quick as lightning, which she gave them, always curbing her disappointment. This was why Daly carried my lady’s letters the first especially to-night. CHAPTER VIII. “Lucy, Lucy!” said Lady Curtis in a stifled voice.