Cicely rises from her bower of roses and crosses the room to him. She holds out her hand with a charming smile. “Let me congratulate you on your marriage, Mr. Bertram,” she says, in a very kind, sweet voice. Bertram looks at her with a little embarrassment. “It is very good of you, Miss Seymour; you are the only person who has said a kind word----” “A kind word! Can you expect kind words?” begins Southwold, in great ire. “My dear Wilfrid, when you afflict and disgrace us so,” says his aunt. Bertram silences them with an impatient movement. “Allow me to speak. My marriage will not disgrace you, for it will not take place----” “Thank God!” cries Lady Southwold. “It is not I who have withdrawn. It is--it is--Miss Brown, with the consent of her family. But I did not come to speak of this matter, which is one purely personal; one with which I was not aware you were acquainted. I came to apologise to Lord Southwold for my rudeness to him a little while ago.” “All right, all right,” replies that choleraic but amiable person. “I’m afraid I used strong language myself; but really your pig-headed illusions are so uncommonly trying to a plain, ordinary man like myself----” “And you haven’t refused the inheritance, Wilfrid?” asks his aunt, in great anxiety. “I have refused, certainly,” replies Bertram; “I have signed and sealed refusal.” Southwold emits a very wicked word; his wife groans aloud. Cicely Seymour, who has gone back to the roses, listens with a face grown bright with interest and approval. “Miss Seymour does not blame me?” says Bertram, softly. “No; I should do as you have done.” “Thanks,” says Bertram, very gravely. Then he takes a registered letter out of his pocket. “I have just received this,” he continues. “Will you allow me to read it to you? It was sent to me by the poor vicar of a village in the Pontine marshes, near which my cousin met his death. He says that my cousin dictated it as he lay dying in his presbytery, and the priest wrote it; it has been sent to me through the Embassy in Rome. Hence the delay. To Folliott of course the man of business had telegraphed. The letter which he dictated to this priest is, of course, in Italian. I propose to translate it to you, for I think my uncle and you do not know that language. It is very short.” He speaks to his aunt, but he looks at Cicely Seymour. “‘I am a dead man,’” he reads aloud from the letter. “‘An old tusker has let life out of me for ever. You will get this when I am gone. I wish we had known each other. I have left you all I possess, not because you are a relative, but because I think you will do good with it. I have not been a student, but I have seen some numbers of your journal, and though I do not agree with you in all your opinions, I see you care for the poor. Come and live on my lands, and you’ll have work enough cut out for you. I have not done my duty--do yours.’ It is signed by him, and the signature is witnessed.” They are all silent.