She went through the sheet first, amused at the amount of talk about nothing; then came to the postscript, with a little laugh at the "N.B." Puzzlement followed quickly. "What did I say about Nigel? I can't remember. What does he mean? 'Not to trouble my head'—well, but I don't. 'Such matters!'—I can't understand. 'Nigel to marry some day'—yes, very likely; anybody might suppose that." A pink spot found its way to her cheek. Did Mr. Carden-Cox imagine that she was running after Nigel, and wish to administer a friendly warning? Impossible, surely!—and yet—"He is so odd! He might mean it," faltered Ethel, glad that nobody was present to remark her looks. "But I should not have expected it from him." She read on slowly, bewildered still. "Fulvia calling for Nigel at night—" quite natural after the shock she had had. But could Mr. Carden-Cox really suppose that she, Ethel, would tell Nigel, even if she had known the fact? What was it that Mr. Browning and Mr. Carden-Cox wanted for Nigel? And who was this "other good girl"? "Fulvia, no doubt," thought Ethel. "'It wouldn't do!' What wouldn't do? 'Nigel marry in opposition to his father!'—No, indeed; nothing less likely." But what had made Mr. Carden-Cox write all this to Ethel? Was he demented? Suddenly, at the end, understanding came in a flood. One moment she was smiling under the gas-burner in amused perplexity; the next instant she saw the whole as with a flash of lightning. This postscript was to Daisy Browning, not to herself. She, Ethel Elvey, and not Fulvia Rolfe, was "the other girl," whom Nigel might never marry—whom, indeed, he had no wish to marry. Ethel did not give the sheet another glance. There was no need, for she knew it all by heart. More especially those words, "Nigel will never marry her!" were stamped upon her memory. They seemed to settle the matter finally. She stood quietly; her eyes fixed on the opposite wall; but she could not see or think. No tears came, only a numb sensation, reaching down to her finger-tips; and, indeed, those little fingers were all at once strangely cold. "I say, Ethel—Eth-el!" called Lance imperiously. "Coming!" cried Ethel. She folded the half-sheet, and thrust it into her pocket, absolutely forgetting at the moment that it was not her own. "O Nigel, Nigel!" a voice within her heart was wailing sadly; and as she crossed the hall towards the schoolroom, he entered by the front door. "Ethel, I'm just come to bring—"