“Very well: give him this to post at Bradmouth, and tell him to be careful not to lose it, and not to be late.” The butler went, and presently Henry caught sight of his messenger cantering down the drive. “There!” he thought, “that’s done; and so am I in a sense. Now for my mother. I must have it out before my courage fails me.” Then he went into the drawing-room, where he found Lady Graves engaged in doing up little boxes of wedding cake to be sent to various friends and connections. She greeted him with a pleasant smile, made some little remark about the room being cold, and throwing back the long crape strings of her widow’s cap, lifted her face for Henry to kiss. “Why, my dear boy, what’s the matter with you?” she said, starting as he bent over her. “You look so disturbed.” “I am disturbed, mother,” he answered, seating himself, “and so I fear you will be when you have heard what I have to tell you.” Lady Graves glanced at him in alarm; she was well trained in bad tidings, but use cannot accustom the blood horse to the whip or the heart to sorrow. “Go on,” she said. “Mother,” he began in a hoarse voice, “last night I told you that I intended to propose to Miss Levinger; now I have come to tell you that such a thing is absolutely impossible.” “Why, Henry?” “Because I am going to marry another woman, mother.” “Going to marry another woman?” she repeated, bewildered. “Whom? Is it that girl?” “Yes, mother, it is she Joan Haste. You remember a conversation that we had shortly after my father’s death?” She bowed her head in assent. “Then you pointed out to me what you considered to be my duty, and begged me to take time to think. I did so, and came to the conclusion that on the whole your view was the right one, as I told you last night. This morning, however, I have received two letters, the first news of Joan Haste that has reached me since she left Bradmouth, which oblige me to change my mind. Here they are: perhaps you will read them.” Lady Graves took the letters and perused them carefully, reading them twice from end to end. Then she handed them back to her son. “Do you understand now, mother?” he asked. “Perfectly, Henry.” “And do you still think that I am wrong in determining to marry Joan Haste whom I love?”