One was from my brother, the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in London with her mother.

His, I think, were business letters, and apparently not much to his mind, for he crushed them into his pocket with some muttered expletives that I should have reproved him for at any other time.

The paper he set before him, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents during the remainder of breakfast, and a considerable time after.
The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction of household concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning: after lunch I got my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time I read.

Meanwhile, poor Arthur was sadly at a loss for something to amuse him or to occupy his time.

He wanted to appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did.