Henry was no fool, and when the first bitterness was past, and he could consider the matter, if not without passion as yet, at least more calmly, he saw, the girl being what she had proved herself to be, that all things were working together for his good and the advantage of his family. Supposing, for instance, that he had found her out after marriage instead of before it, and supposing that the story which she told him in her first letter had been true, instead of what it clearly was a lie? Surely in these and in many other ways his escape had been what an impartial person might call fortunate. At the least, of her own act she had put an end to an imbroglio that had many painful aspects, and there remained no stain upon his honour, for which he was most truly thankful. And now, having learnt his lesson in the hard school of experience, he would write to his friend the under-secretary, saying he could not be in town till Wednesday. Meanwhile he would pay his visit at Monk’s Lodge. CHAPTER XXXV. DISENCHANTMENT. It was Sunday evening at Monk’s Lodge, and Henry and Mr. Levinger were sitting over their wine after dinner. For a while they talked upon indifferent subjects, and more particularly about the shooting on the previous day and the arrangements for the morrow’s sport. Then there was a silence, which Mr. Levinger broke. “I have heard a curious bit of news,” he said, “about Joan Haste. It seems that she is married.” Henry drank half a glass of port wine, and answered, “Yes, I know. She has married your tenant Samuel Rock, the dissenter, a very strange person. I cannot understand it.” “Can’t you? I think I can. It is a good match for her, though I don’t altogether approve of it, and know nothing of the details. However, I wasn’t consulted, and there it is. I hope that they may be happy.” “So do I,” said Henry grimly. “And now, Mr. Levinger, I want to have a word with you about the estate affairs. What is to be done? It is time that you took some steps to protect yourself.” “It seems to me, Graves,” he answered deliberately, “that my course of action must very much depend upon your own. You know what I mean.” “Yes, Mr. Levinger; but are you still anxious that I should propose to your daughter? Forgive me if I speak plainly.” “That has always been my wish, and I see no particular reason to change it.” “But do you think that it is her wish, Mr. Levinger? I fancy that her manner has been a little cold to me of late, perhaps with justice; and,” he added, rather nervously, “naturally I do not wish to lay myself open to a rebuff. I find that I am very ignorant of the ways of women, as of various other things.” “Many of us have made that discovery, Graves; and of course it is impossible for me to guarantee your success, though I think that you will be successful.”