Every gleam of
coloring, every breath of perfume, seemed to carry him unresistingly
back to the days of his boyhood. He fished once more in the trout
streams; he threw away his stick, and tramped or rode with Juliet
across the moors. At night time she sang or played with the windows
open, Wingrave himself out of sight under the cedar trees, whose
perfume filled with aromatic sweetness the still night air. Piles of
letters came every day, which he left unopened upon his study table.
Telegrams followed, which he threw into the wastepaper basket. Juliet
watched the accumulating heap with amazement.
"Whatever do people write to you so much for?" she asked one morning,
watching the stream of letters flow out of the post bag.
Wingrave was silent for a moment. Her question brought a sudden and
sharp sting of remembrance. Juliet knew him only as Sir Wingrave
Seton. She knew nothing of Mr. Wingrave, millionaire.
"Advertisements, a good many of them," he said. "I must send for
Aynesworth some day to go through them all."
"What fun!" she exclaimed. "Do send for him! He thinks that I am
staying with Miss Pengarth, and I haven't written once since I got
here!"
To Wingrave, it seemed that a chill had somehow stolen into the hot
summer morning. His feet were very nearly upon the earth again.
"I forgot," he said, "that Aynesworth was--a friend of yours. He came
and saw you often in London?"
She smiled reflectively.
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