“Are you?” Margaret looked at him coolly, finished his letter, and started to read the other. As he had expected, the letters were alike. One had been brought by a merchantman, the other by the man-of-war. The letter was that saddest of all letters, the letter of the old man who asks humbly, knowing the selfishness of youth. That the old man wrote without hope seemed evident to Margaret from the appeal he made to chivalrous sentiment. “I am confident to write to you,” ran the un-confident words, “though we are little acquainted. I had the honour to serve with your father more than forty years ago.” Then there came a request that Captain Margaret would cause Stukeley to be arrested and brought home to trial, so that Olivia might again be under his care. There was also a moving prayer that he, the son of that old brother-in-arms who had ridden with the writer at Newbury forty odd years before, would let Olivia know what her husband had done. She was ignorant of her husband’s nature; but in England it was said that she was not so ignorant. In England her honour seemed smirched, for there were some who saw in her flight the ruse of a criminal and his doxy. It was right that she should know this, and very right that her husband should stand his trial, so that their honour might be cleared. The letter was bitter reading to Margaret. It made him feel that he had stained Olivia’s honour in staining his own, and all for the sake of a ruffian incapable of feeling the sacrifice. If the letter had come before his interview with Howard he would have pleaded differently, child or no child. He looked grave, helped himself to more wine, and handed a letter to Perrin. “What’s the old boy say?” said Stukeley. “That is surely not your business,” Margaret answered. “I’ll make it my business. It concerns me. Isn’t it all about me? Eh?” “No.” “Isn’t it? I’ll soon see. Now then, Pilly. Hand over.” “Leave Edward alone,” said Margaret. “The letter’s a private letter to myself. I prefer that you shall not read it, Stukeley.” “Shall not. Eh? Blood. Eh? Shall not. Give it to me, Pilly.” “Sit down, Stukeley,” said Margaret. “Don’t you touch me, Stukeley,” said Perrin. “Give me that letter.” He was within snatching distance; but Perrin twisted aside, so that he missed his mark. He sprawled across Perrin trying to reach his outstretched hand. “Get out, you beast,” said Perrin, thrusting with his elbow. “Temper, eh?” said Stukeley. He feinted quickly for Perrin’s nose; Perrin’s outstretched hand flew back to guard; the letter was seized with a whoop of triumph. Stukeley glanced contemptuously at Perrin, and began to read the letter, as Margaret quietly walked round the table to him. Stukeley saw him coming, and kicked Mrs. Prinsep’s chair across his shins, checking his progress for an instant. As he kicked the chair, Perrin dashed at him, to snatch the paper. Stukeley flung him aside heavily, laughing at the fun of the tussle.