Mr. Eildon spent six weeks at a shooting-box belonging to his uncle
the duke, after which he went to London, where he got a post under
government--a place which was by no means a sinecure, but where there
was plenty of work not over-paid. Before leaving he called for a few
minutes at Garscube Hall to say good-bye, and that was all they saw of
him.
Alice missed him: a very good thing, of which she had been as
unconscious as she was of the atmosphere, had been withdrawn from her
life. George's letter had nailed him to her memory: she thought of him
very often, and that is a dangerous thing for a young lady to do if
she means to keep herself entirely fancy free. She wondered if his
work was very hard work, and if he was shut in an office all day; she
did not think he was made for that; it seemed as unnatural as putting
a bird into a cage. She made some remark of this kind to Lady Arthur,
who laughed and said, "Oh, George won't kill himself with hard work."
From that time forth Alice was shy of speaking of him to his aunt.
But she had kept his letter, and indulged herself with a reading of it
occasionally; and every time she read it she seemed to understand it
better.
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