Thus time sped on, and Kingsley was still absent. He wrote to Nansie regularly, and she as regularly replied to his letters, never missing a post. She wrote in her bedroom always, and generally at night when the others were abed. In silence and solitude she was better able to open her heart to her husband. To say that she was entirely happy apart from Kingsley would not be true, but she had a spirit of rare hope and contentment, and her gratitude for the shelter and comfort of her new home was a counterbalance to the unhappiness she would otherwise have experienced. "A letter for you, Nansie," Mr. Loveday would say. Taking it eagerly, she would speed to her room and read it again and again, drawing hopeful auguries from words in which none really lay. For although Kingsley's letters were cheerfully and lovingly written, there was nothing substantial in them in their prospects of the future. They were all of the present, of his doings, of his adventures, of his travels, of what he had seen and done, forming a kind of diary faithfully kept, but with a strange blindness in respect of years to come. At one time he was in France, at another in Italy, at another in Germany, at another in Russia. "Mr. Seymour," he wrote, "has an insatiable thirst for travel, and will start off at an hour's notice from one country to another, moved seemingly by sudden impulses in which there appears to be an utter lack of system. It is inconvenient, but of course I am bound to accompany him; and there is, after all, in these unexpected transitions a charm to me, who could never be accused of being methodical. The serious drawback is that I am parted from you. What pleasure it would give me to have you by my side! And you would be no less happy than I." Then would follow a description of the places they passed through and stopped at, of people they met, and of small adventures which afforded him entertainment, ending always with protestations of love, the sincerity of which could not be doubted. But Mr. Loveday was never anything than grave when Nansie read aloud to him extracts from her husband's letters. "Who is Mr. Seymour?" he asked. "A gentleman," replied Nansie. "What is he, I mean?" was Mr. Loveday's next question. Nansie shook her head. "I have no idea." "Has your husband any idea?" "I suppose he has." "You only suppose, Nansie." "Yes, uncle, I can do nothing else, because Kingsley has never said anything about it." "Surely, if he really knew," persisted Mr. Loveday, "he would not be so silent on the subject." "Perhaps you are right, uncle; perhaps Kingsley does not really know." "If Mr. Seymour were travelling with any specific object in view, there would be no need for secrecy. Say that he were an enthusiast, that he had a craze, no matter in what shape, he would not disguise it." "Certainly not, uncle. Mr. Seymour must be travelling simply for pleasure."