No one in Riseholme knew but he,
and no one should ever know. Riseholme had been electrified by
spiritualism, and even now the seances had been cheap at the price.
The debris of all these papers he caused to be removed by the
housemaid, and this was hardly done when his wife came in from the
Green.
"I thought there was a chimney on fire, Robert," she said. "You would
have liked it to be the kitchen-chimney as you said the other day."
"Stuff and nonsense, my dear," said he. "Lunch-time, isn't it?"
"Yes. Ah, there's the post. None for me, and two for you."
She looked at him narrowly as he took his letters. Perhaps their
subconscious minds (according to her dear friend's theory) held
communication, but only the faintest unintelligible ripple of that
appeared on the surface.
"I haven't heard from my Princess since she went away," she remarked.
Robert gave a slight start; he was a little off his guard from the
reaction after his anxiety.
"Indeed!" he said. "Have you written to her?"
She appeared to try to remember.
"Well, I really don't believe I have," she said. "That is remiss of me.
I must send her a long budget one of these days."
This time he looked narrowly at her. Had she a secret, he wondered, as
well as he? What could it be?...
Georgie found his mission none too easy, and it was only the thought
that it was a labour of love, or something very like it, that enabled
him to persevere.
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