Cynthia was sitting at the table, her writing-case was open before her, but she was nibbling meditatively at the handle of her pen, her eyes fixed absently on the fire. Evidently she found a difficulty in beginning her correspondence. “With pleasure!” said Gillman as he tossed over his copy of a newspaper. “The worst of it is that it is a day old. Daily papers are an unprocurable luxury in these out-of-the-way regions.” Cynthia took it eagerly. How was it going on, the world she had left? She scanned the first page with interest. A foreign sovereign was staying in London, there was the usual account of festivities and decorations in his honour, and the conventional “leader” setting forth the reasons why this particular monarch should be received with special honour. Cynthia turned the sheet over listlessly: a party of British savants were visiting a Continental capital; a man and a woman staying at one of the principal hotels in the Strand had committed suicide.
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