“Ah,--you see!”
Pontycroft after Ruth's departure ponderated thus on the tone of
significance, to his sister. “Ah, ha! You see.... She's eager for news.
She's expecting something.... She's on the watch for every post.”
“You're quite off the scent, Harry,” returned his sister languidly.
Lucilla, it was plain, was still disturbed by her brother's chaff.
“It's her uncle's semi-annual missive she's so eagerly on the lookout
for. The child nourishes a perfect hero-worship for the old man; she
writes to him six times to his one. His letters come with military
precision, once in a six month. They're invariably brief, and they
invariably wind up with this hospitable apophthegm, 'Remember the
string's on the latchet of the door whenever you choose to pull it.
Whenever you care to look upon your home in Oldbridge you will find a
hearty welcome from your affectionate uncle,' then a sabre thrust, his
name,--presumably.”
Lucilla rose, with that languid grace she was so famous for. She went
to the edge of the terrace and leaned upon the balustrade, where she
remained, silently taking in her fill of the peaceful landscape.