Towards the end of February she received a letter from Vincent's mother which left no doubt on the subject. The news of his downfall had reached his home at last. Mrs. Hardy knew of her son's attachment to his cousin, and had always had fixed ideas on that point. On being told that he had "gone" irretrievably "to the bad," she jumped to a conclusion: it was the right one, as it happened, though she had managed to cover a great deal of ground in that jump. She at once wrote off a long and violent letter to her niece, taxing her with cruelty, fickleness, and ingratitude, laying Vincent's misdeeds on her shoulders, and ending thus: "They tell me you are engaged. I pray God you may not have to go through what you have made my darling boy suffer." Now, either the poor hysterical lady was an unconscious instrument in the hands of Destiny, or her prayer may have been meant as a modified and lady-like curse; at any rate, if it had not entered into her head to write that letter, it would have saved the writing of one chapter in her niece's history. But, in the first place, the communication had the effect of making Audrey cry a great deal, for her; in the second, it came by an afternoon post, so that Langley Wyndham, calling at his usual hour, found her crying. He was a little taken aback by the sight, as indeed any man would have been, for most women of his acquaintance arranged things so as not to do their crying in calling hours. However, he judged it the truest kindness to sit down and talk as if nothing had happened. But it requires considerable self-possession and command of language to sit still and talk about the weather with a woman's tears falling before you like rain; and even Langley Wyndham, that studious cultivator of phrases, found it hard. Audrey herself relieved him from his embarrassment by frankly drying her eyes and saying-- "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean that to happen; but----" He glanced at the letter open in her lap. "Not bad news, I hope?" "N-no," she answered, with a sob verging on the hysterical. Wyndham looked frightened at that, and she checked herself in time. "No, it's nothing. At least I can't speak about it. And yet--if I did, I believe I should feel better. I am so miserable." "I am truly sorry. I wish I could be of some use. If you thought you could speak about it to me, you know you can trust me." "I know I can. Oh, if I could only tell you! But I can't." "Why not? Would it be so very hard? I _might_ be able to help you." "You might. I do want somebody's advice--so much." "You are always welcome to mine. You needn't take it, you know." She smiled through her tears, for she had acquired a faint sense of humour under Ted's influence, and had not yet lost it. "Well, it's about Vinc--my cousin Mr. Hardy. You remember meeting him here once?" "I do indeed." "You may remember something I told you about him then. Perhaps I ought not to have told you."