Lord Thrapston felt that he had spoilt the moral effect of his reproof, and, without dwelling further on that aspect of the subject, he addressed his mind to the more practical question. The outcome, different as the source was, was the same old verdict. "We must tell Calder, my dear. It isn't right to keep him in the dark." "I can't tell him. Why must he be told?" "Well," said Lord Thrapston, "it's just possible, Aggy, that he may have something to say to it, isn't it?" "I don't mind what he says," declared Agatha. "Eh? Why, I thought you were so fond of him." "So I am." "And as you're going to marry him "I never said I was going to marry him. I only said he might be engaged to me, if he liked." "Oho! So this young Merceron----" "Not at all, grandpapa. Oh, I do wish somebody would help me!" Lord Thrapston rose from his seat. "You must do what you like," he said. "I'm going to tell Calder." "Oh, why?" "Because," he answered, "I'm a man of honor." Before the impressive invocation of her grandfather's one religion, Agatha's opposition collapsed. "I suppose he must be told," she admitted mournfully. "I expect he'll never speak to me again, and I'm sure Mr. Merceron won't;" and she sat on the footstool, the picture of dejection. Lord Thrapston was moved to enunciate a solemn truth. "Aggy," said he, shaking his finger at her, "in this world you can't have your fun for nothing." But then he spoilt it by adding regretfully, "More's the pity!" and off he hobbled to the club, intent on finding Calder Wentworth. For some time after he went, Agatha sat on her stool in deep thought. Then she rose, sat down at the writing-table, took a pen, and began to bite the end of it. At last she started to write: