She and Lucy Foster and Aunt Pattie had already dispersed to their rooms.

It was strange that he should have dined in town.

It had been expressly arranged on their way to Rome that he should bring them back.
Eleanor was sitting in a low chair beside a table that carried a paraffin lamp.

At her back was the window, which was open save for the sun-shutter outside, and the curtains, both of which had been drawn close.

A manuscript diary lay on Eleanor's lap, and she was listlessly turning it over, with eyes that saw nothing, and hands that hardly knew what they touched.