“Dear Mrs. Clarendon, “I want to tell you in as few words as possible that my marriage is indefinitely postponed. It will not, in any event, take place before I complete my twenty-first year. My second purpose in writing to you is to ask your permission to go at once to London and live in Mr. Meres’ house. This is for purposes of study. I am unable to procure at Knightswell the materials I need. Will you oblige me with a reply as soon as you can? “Faithfully yours, “Ada Warren.” “It does not in the very least surprise me,” observed Mrs. Stratton, smiling urbanely. “I don’t think I could say that. I _am_ surprised. I believed Ada would stick to a purpose through thick and thin.” “My dear, she accepted that man in a moment of pique, and she has very wisely repented whilst there is time.” Isabel was silent. “And her wanting to go to London,” pursued the other. “It’s all perfectly clear. She’s ashamed of herself; she can’t face you.” Isabel seated herself and mused, the letter on her lap. Her cheek had a flush of excitement, and her eyes were very bright. “Look at this, too,” she said, with a laugh, taking from its envelope another letter she was holding. “From Mrs. Bruce Page. I wonder _she_ is not ashamed of herself, I really do!” “My dearest Mrs. Clarendon,” ran this epistle, “it would be a mercy if you would let me know what your latest news is about that boy. Do you hear from or of him? Has he done anything surprising yet? I shouldn’t a bit wonder if he does--I mean in this affair. He is capable of anything. Do let me know at once if you have any curious news either from him or Ada.” “It looks as if she anticipated it,” said Mrs. Stratton. “It does. It would be no great wonder if she proved to be at the bottom of it.” “Of the postponement, or rupture, or whatever it is?” Isabel nodded. “But what shall you do immediately?” “Nothing. What is there to do? Merely write and give her the permission she asks for.” “I am really delighted at this!” Mrs. Stratton exclaimed. “Why should you be delighted? I assure you it is nothing to me.” “My dear, it is everything--you will tell Mr. Asquith?” “I suppose so. It will annoy him.” She reddened, and corrected herself. “Nonsense, I didn’t mean to say that. I dare say he will take it very much as you do. But you will both be wrong, both be wrong.” “Isabel, you are mysterious.” “Am I?” she asked with a laugh, not a very joyous one. “Yes, more mysterious than I like.” “Then indeed it won’t be mysterious at all. It’s only in your imagination, Rose. Oh dear, oh dear!” she sighed, “this world is a hard one!” “I wonder whether you will hear from Mr. Lacour?” Mrs. Stratton asked, after trying to read her friend’s face. “I wonder,” said Isabel absently. Their conversation soon came to an end. There was to be driving before lunch as the sky had cleared, and it was not till afternoon that Isabel had an opportunity of informing her cousin of the news she had received.