"Thank you, Madame," I answered, and turned to my letters, among which were a couple of telegrams. But she laid her quiet hand upon them and pointed with the other to the glass that she had filled. She watched me drink the strong wine, which was, indeed, almost a cordial, then took up the letters in her hands. "My poor friend," she said, "there is bad news for you here. You must be prepared." Handing me the letters, she went to the door, but did not quit the room. She merely stood there with her back turned to me, exhibiting a strange, silent patience while I slowly opened the letters and read that my father and I had quarrelled for the last time. It was I who moved first and broke the silence of that old house. The daylight was glimmering through the closed jalousies, making stripes of light upon the ceiling. "Madame," I said, "I must go home--to England--by the early train, this morning! May I ask you to explain to Monsieur le Vicomte." "Yes," she answered, turning and facing me. "Your coffee will be ready at seven o'clock. And none of us will come downstairs until after your departure. At such times a man is better alone--is it not so? For a woman it is different." I extinguished the useless lamp, and we passed round the gallery together. At the door of my bedroom she stopped, and turning, laid her hand--as light as a child's--upon my arm. "What will you, my poor friend?" she said, with a queer little smile. "_C'est la vie._" It is not my intention to dwell at length upon my journey to England and all that awaited me there. There are times in his life when--as Madame de Clericy said, with her wise smile--a man is better alone. And are there not occasions when the most eloquent of us is best dumb? I had for travelling companion on the bright autumn morning when I quitted Paris my father's friend, John Turner--called suddenly to England on matters of business. He gave a grunt when he saw me in the Northern station. "Better have taken my advice," he said, "to go home and make it up with your father, rather than stay here to run after that girl with the pretty hair--at your time of life. Avoid quarrels and seek a reconciliation--that is my plan. Best way is to ask the other chap to dinner and do him well. What are you going home for now? It is too late." As, indeed, I knew without the telling. For when I reached Hopton my father had already been laid in the old churchyard beneath the shadow of the crumbling walls of the ruined church, which is now no longer used. They have built a gaudy new edifice farther inland, but so long as a Howard owns Hopton Hall, we shall, I think, continue to lie in the graveyard nearer to the sea.