“That’s flat,” said Sarah. “I mean what I say. After all this time, to let that poor girl see our engagement in the paper and nurse her sorrow without one word of explanation or regret. . . . I confess I’m disgusted. No honourable man——” “I’m not an honourable man,” said Pardoner. “I’m a loathsome and venomous worm. Ask Mrs. Closeley Dore.” “You will write to her now,” said Sarah. “You will send for a sheet of notepaper and write to her now—in the lounge. I’ll help you.” By the time the document was settled, it was a quarter to four. _My Dear June_, _Possibly by now you will have seen the announcement of my engagement in the papers. Had I been able, I should have wished to tell you of it myself, but a recent bereavement has not only kept me in London, but has affected my brain. The marriage I am contracting is one which you would have been the first to wish me to make. Indeed, I have often fancied that I could hear your soft voice urging me to go forward. My poor uncle is dead, dear, and I have reason to believe that it was his earnest desire that I should wed his ward. I feel, therefore, that the least I can do is to respect his wishes. Nothing, however, can take away the memory of the many happy, happy hours we have spent together, and I look forward confidently to bringing my wife to see you, as soon as we are settled. I am sure that you and she will get on together, and perhaps one day you will come and stay with us at Palfrey, which we shall make our home._ _Your affectionate friend,_ _Virgil Pardoner._ “Now address it,” said Sarah, “and send for a stamp.” Pardoner hesitated. “I’ld, er, I’ld like to sleep on it,” he said. “I mean, it’s—it’s a ticklish business.” Miss Vulliamy indicated an envelope with a firm pointed finger. “Pretty hands you’ve got,” said Virgil musingly. “Pretty nails, too.” “What are June’s like?” “Oh, very good,” said Virgil. “Full of character, you know. But yours are bewitching. That left one——” “Apostate,” said Sarah. “And now address this envelope.” Virgil did so laboriously. _Miss June Townshend,_ _The Rectory,_ _Roughbridge,_ _Lincolnshire._ They posted the letter together, before they parted. * * * * * It was two days later that Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt was seriously annoyed. “Such impudence,” she said, bristling. “As if she were the daughter of the house. . . .” The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt, Rector of Loughbridge, laid down his pen. “What is the matter, my dear?” His wife stabbed at the bell and flounced into a chair before replying.