Surely it was nothing of disgrace! As he sat there before me, with his calm pale face and its sweet expression, it was against the dictates of common sense to suppose that ill or wicked antecedents attached to him. No; I would not believe it, let Madam Penn say what she chose. It was a lovely autumn morning to begin the week with. The fire burnt briskly in the grate, but the window, near which we sat, was open. Mr. Chandos seemed low and depressed. His moods were changeable: sometimes he would be lively, laughing, quite gay; as if he put away the inward trouble for a time. During breakfast, which he ate this morning nearly in silence, he took a letter from his pocket and glanced down its contents, heaving an involuntary sigh. I recognised it for one that had been delivered the previous morning: the name "Henry Amos" on the corner of the envelope proved the writer. I wondered then—I wonder still—_why_ people put their names outside the letters they send, as some do. "Does he write instructions to you still, Mr. Chandos?" "Who? Dr. Amos? Well, yes; in a measure." "I hope he thinks you are getting better?" "I tell him that I am. You have forgotten the sugar. A small lump, please. Thank you." It was ever so. If I did summon up courage to ask about his health he only turned it off. His tea did not want further sweetening more than mine did. We were sent out that day for a drive in the large open carriage; Mrs. Chandos, Mrs. Penn, and I. It was the first time we had gone together. Mr. Chandos was away; attending some county meeting. It was nearly five when we got home. Later, when I had my hair down and dress off, getting ready for dinner, Mrs. Penn came in. "Oh, this dreary life at Chandos!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair, without any ceremony or apology for entering. "I am not sure that I can continue to put up with it." "Dreary, do you find it?" "It is dreary. It is not pleasant or satisfactory. Mrs. Chandos grows colder and more capricious; and you are not half the companion you might be. It was on the tip of my tongue just now to give her warning. If I _do_ give it, I shall be off the next day. I never found a place dull in all my life before." "Something has vexed you, perhaps, Mrs. Penn?" "If it has, it's only a slight vexation. I made haste to write this as soon as we came in"—turning her left hand, in which lay a sealed letter—"and I find the letters are gone. I thought the man called for them at half-past five." "No; at five." "So Hickens has just informed me. What few letters I have had to write since I came have been done in the morning. It can't be helped; it must wait until to-morrow." She put the letter into her bag, shutting it with a sharp click that told of vexation; a small morocco bag with a steel clasp and chain; took her keys from her pocket and locked it. "What a pretty thing that is!" "This reticule? Yes, it is pretty: and very convenient. Have you one?"