The day before Cecilia and her father left Mount Laurels for their season in Wales, Mr. Tuckham and Beauchamp came together to the house, and were closeted an hour with her father. Cecilia sat in the drawing-room, thinking that she did indeed wait, and had great patience. Beauchamp entered the room alone. He looked worn and thin, of a leaden colour, like the cloud that bears the bolt. News had reached him of the death of Lord Avonley in the hunting-field, and he was going on to Steynham to persuade his uncle to accompany him to Bevisham and wash the guilt of his wrong-doing off him before applying for the title. “You would advise me not to go?” he said. “I must. I should be dishonoured myself if I let a chance pass. I run the risk of being a beggar: I’m all but one now.” Cecilia faltered: “Do you see a chance?” “Hardly more than an excuse for trying it,” he replied. She gave him back Dr. Shrapnel’s letters. “I have read them,” was all she said. For he might have just returned from France, with the breath of Renée about him, and her pride would not suffer her to melt him in rivalry by saying what she had been led to think of the letters. Hearing nothing from her, he silently put them in his pocket. The struggle with his uncle seemed to be souring him or deadening him. They were not alone for long. Mr. Tuckham presented himself to take his leave of her. Old Mrs. Beauchamp was dying, and he had only come to Mount Laurels on special business. Beauchamp was just as anxious to hurry away. Her father found her sitting in the solitude of a drawing-room at midday, pale-faced, with unoccupied fingers, not even a book in her lap. He walked up and down the room until Cecilia, to say something, said: “Mr. Tuckham could not stay.” “No,” said her father; “he could not. He has to be back as quick as he can to cut his legacy in halves!” Cecilia looked perplexed.