“William,” she said, “you must not refuse to let me see you once again. I cannot believe that you are too ill to shake hands with your cousin Anne.” As she spoke she looked round the room, and took in all its details at a glance. It had three windows, a writing-table and a book-case between them, facing them, a big four-post bedstead with dark hangings. To the left was a tall wardrobe of rosewood that had no looking-glass let into its panelled doors. By the fireplace was a roomy easy-chair, in which sat Sir William Rammage. He was dressed in a puce woollen dressing-gown, and half rolled up in a coloured blanket. By his side was an invalid table, with writing materials on it, and a flap at the side that stretched over his knees. In the large fireplace blazed a cheerful fire, and on the other side of the fireplace, and facing Sir William, there was a second easy-chair. He was evidently a tall man—thin, nervous, and irritable. His manner was cold and disagreeable, but it conveyed a sense of loneliness, a remembrance of long, cheerless years, that in a manner excused it. He looked like a man who had probably deserved respect, but had made few friendships. He was not nearly as old as he appeared at the first glance; illness, and work, and lack of human interests had aged him more than actual years. “How do you do?” he said dryly. “I have been so grieved to hear of your illness, William. I hope you received my letters—I wrote three or four times to tender you my sympathy.” She looked at the servant in a manner that said, “Go away”—and he went, carefully shutting the door. “I am not well enough to receive visitors,” Sir William said, in the same dry voice. “My dear William, you must let me stay with you five minutes; I will not intrude longer on your privacy”—and she seated herself on the chair facing him. “If what you have to say is of a business nature, I am not well enough to enter upon it now.” “Did you derive benefit from your stay at Cannes?—you were constantly in my thoughts.” “Thank you, thank you.” “I fear you have had to abandon many of your city occupations,” she went on, in a sympathetic voice; “it must be a great regret to the corporation. I was speaking of your mayoralty some months ago to Mr. Fisher, the editor of _The Centre_.” Aunt Anne was talking to gain time. Her throat was choking; her mouth twitched with restrained excitement. “Where did you meet him?” Sir William asked, in a judicial manner, tapping the arm of his chair with his thin fingers. “I met him at Walter Hibbert’s.” He was silent, and seemed to be waiting for her to go. For a few moments she could not gather courage to speak again. He looked up at her. “I am much obliged for this visit,” he said coldly, “but I cannot ask you to prolong it.” “William,” she said, “I came to see you on a matter of necessity. I would not have intruded had it been otherwise. On the occasion of my last visit I saw Mr. Boughton, but I understand that he is now away.”