It was as if she was writing now rather to comply with a sense of duty than to give vent to the light-hearted gaiety and naive enjoyment which breathed in every line of her earlier communications.

So at least it seemed to us, and again the old suspicion presented itself to my mind, and I feared that all was not as it should be.
Naples was to be the turning-point of their travels, and we expected them to return to England by the end of October.

November had arrived, however, and we still had no intimation that their return journey had commenced or was even decided on.

From John there was no word, and Constance wrote less often than ever.

John, she said, was enraptured with Naples and its surroundings; he devoted himself much to the violin, and though she did not say so, this meant, I knew, that she was often left alone.