'I don't know. Some say they do, some say they don't. I believe that really
clever men, men of genius, don't.'

'I wonder if Hubert is a man of genius. What do you think?'

'I really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.'

Another week passed away, and Emily began to assume an air of languor and
timid yearning. One day she said--

'I wonder he doesn't write. He hasn't answered my letter yet. Has he
answered yours?'

'He has not written to me again. He hasn't time for letter-writing. He is
working night and day at his play.'

'I suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. He'd be
sure to come by the five o'clock.'

'He won't come without writing. He'd be sure to write for the dog-cart.'

'I suppose so. There's no use in looking out for him.'

But, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, Emily could not help
choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and Julia noticed that the
girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. Often she would
leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through
the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was
Southwater, in the middle of the long plain.