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He began walking about the room in a listless way, looking about at the various familiar objects that he was to see no more, and one of the first things to strike him was a teacup on the washstand, containing Mrs Millett's infusion, bitter, nauseous, and sweetened to sickliness; and it struck Dexter that the mixture had been placed in a cup instead of a glass, so as to make it less objectionable in appearance.
He pointed to a tumbler on a little papier-mache tray standing at Dexter's door. "Never mind that, dear," said Helen, smiling. "I dare say it is only camomile-tea, and it shows that the poor boy has not lost his place in dear old Millett's heart."
Helen went into the library where she found the doctor biting the end of his pen, and gazing up into a corner of the room. "I don't seem to be getting on as I could wish, my dear. By the way, we haven't heard from that young dog lately. He promised me faithfully to write regularly." Helen thought of Mrs Millett's words, but said nothing, and at that moment Maria entered with the letters.
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