Annabel, who had been sunk in thought, looked up with a smile. She
was about to say something, but her cousin replied rapidly:

'Oh, Mr. Egremont is in London--at least, he was a month ago.'

'Not much of a guarantee that he is there now,' Mr. Newthorpe
rejoined.

'I'll drop him a line and see,' said Paula. 'I meant to do so
yesterday, but forgot. I'll write and tell him to send me a full
account of himself. Isn't it too bad that people don't write to me?
Everybody forgets you when you're out of town in the season. Now
you'll see I shan't have a single letter again this morning; it is
the cruellest thing!'

'But you had a letter yesterday, Paula,' Annabel remarked.

'A letter? Oh, from mamma; that doesn't count. A letter isn't a
letter unless you feel anxious to see what's in it. I know exactly
all that mamma will say, from beginning to end, before I open the
envelope. Not a scrap of news, and with her opportunities, too! But
I can count on Mr. Egremont for at least four sides--well, three.'

'But surely he is not a source of news?' said her uncle with
surprise.

'Why not? He can be very jolly when he likes, and I know he'll write
a nice letter if I ask him to. You can't think how much he's
improved just lately. He was down at the Ditchleys' when we were