"Pardon me, you did not give him any adequate reason; but it is so easy to deceive a man. Now, _I_ want the truth. Come, Rosamund, confide in me. You know that letter contains news of the deepest interest to you, perhaps to me, perhaps to others. Ah, you blush! I have hit upon the truth." I had been sitting when Lady Ursula began to speak, now I stood up. "As far as any one can predict the future, Lady Ursula," I said, "the contents of my Cousin Geoffrey Rutherford's letter will never be known except to the two people who are already in possession of the secret." "Who are they?" "I am one, Mr Gray is the other. Think what you like about the letter, Lady Ursula, you are never, never likely to know more of its contents than you do at this moment." Lady Ursula was a person largely blessed with the bump of curiosity, but she was also a lady, and she knew when to stop. Her face wore a blank, half-amused, half-indignant expression. Then coming up to me she bent forward and kissed my forehead. "I might have guessed I should have my drive for nothing," she said. "Now then, to change the subject. Where did you get that fascinating dress you wore last night?" "The dress I wore last night was my mother's wedding-gown." "Delicious! Who but Rosamund Lindley would have dared to appear in an antiquated robe of that sort! My dear, your daring deserved its success. Rupert declares that he thought his great-grandmother had suddenly come into the room. His great-grandmother young and--and beautiful." I scarcely heard Lady Ursula's last words. I was standing by the window watching a boy who was approaching the house. He was a telegraph boy, and as he walked up the steps I saw him take a yellow envelope out of the little bag fastened to his side. I knew even before the servant brought it in, that that telegram was for me. I also knew that it contained bad tidings. My heart sank low in my breast. Lady Ursula's gay, high voice kept rambling on. I ceased to hear a word she was saying. The drawing-room door was opened. The neat parlour-maid walked up the long apartment. She held out a silver salver, with the telegram lying on it. "For you, miss," she said. "And the boy is waiting to know if there is any answer." The contents of the telegram were brief and emphatic. "Your mother is very ill; come home at once." My father had dictated that telegram. I raised a cold, white face to Lady Ursula's. "Good-bye," I said. "This explains why I must leave you." I put the telegram into her hand and rushed out of the room. I am not quite sure to this day whether I bid the kind Grays good-bye. I know that somehow or other I found myself in a cab, and in some fashion I caught an early train, and reached home in the bright spring sunshine before the day had half travelled through its course.