He would have liked to have gone over to Malvern and have seen Edward. Betty was there. But he was wanted in the office. So often Mr. Mowbray had one of his headaches and did not care to leave the house, and then it was always Anthony he would send for, and they would work in the library. And of late he had taken to absenting himself for days at a time, being called away, as he would explain, upon private affairs. And to Anthony alone he would confide his address, in case it was “absolutely necessary” for him to be recalled. Anthony had his suspicions where these journeys ended. He was worried. Betty had returned from Malvern, Edward having assured her that he was much better. Anthony, looking at the matter from all sides, came to the conclusion that he ought to tell her. It was bound to come out sooner or later. Betty was not surprised. “It’s what I’ve been fearing,” she said. “It was Ted that kept him straight. He’s always been a good father to both of us. He wanted Ted to succeed to a sound business; but now this blow has come he doesn’t seem to care.” “But Ted is going to succeed to it,” replied Anthony without looking up. “I wish you could persuade him of that,” she said. “I’ve tried; but I only make him excited. He says it’s God’s punishment on him for his sins and apparently argues from that that he may just as well go on sinning. If Ted could get well enough to come home, if only for a few days, it might make all the difference.” “Don’t you think he could?” suggested Anthony. “Not to Millsborough,” she answered. She glanced out of the window at the everlasting smoke that was rolling slowly up the valley towards the sea. “I wanted him to take The Abbey--Sir William Coomber’s old place up on the moor--it is still to let. But this woman seems to have got firmly hold of him at last. My fear is that she’ll marry him. Poor dad! He’s such a kid.” “Has he known her long?” asked Anthony. “She was our governess when Ted and I were children,” Betty answered. “She was a pretty woman, but I always hated her. It was instinct, I suppose. She married soon after she left us, and went back to France, but returned to London when her husband died about six years ago. I’d rather anything than that he should marry her. To see her sleeping in mother’s room! I couldn’t stand that. I should----” She stopped abruptly. She was trembling. “I don’t think there’s any fear of that,” said Anthony. “He still loves your mother. I’m not talking merely to please you. It’s the best thing about him. And he loves you. He’d think of all that.” “He didn’t think of it when she lived,” Betty answered. They were in the long dining-room and had just finished dinner. Mr. Mowbray had telegraphed that he was coming home that evening and would want to see Anthony. But he had not yet arrived. She was looking at the portrait of her mother over the great mantel-piece.