As Mr Boxall was finishing his lonely tea, a knock came to the door, followed by a voice through the keyhole. “Misther Boxall,” said the voice, “are yiz there? The young lady’s wishful to see you; be on the laan in front of the house be half-past tin o’clock, sharp.” “Yes, yes,” said Mr Boxall. “Who is there—what’s that’s you say?” No answer. “Who is there?” No answer. Mr Boxall went to the door, opened it cautiously two inches or so and peeped out; there was no one visible. He opened it fully and put his head out: the corridor was empty. Then he closed the door, and pacing his room ruminated over the message he had just received. The only young lady in the house was Violet Lestrange; that the message referred to her he could not doubt, that the message had come to him from the lips of a servant was undeniable. The sex of the servant he could not tell, for the voice was muted, yet it sounded female. If you were to imagine that the message gave him any thrill, or caused him any pleasurable excitement, you would be vastly mistaken. He felt very much irritated. The whole thing was out of order, and utterly inexplicable. He had chosen Violet Lestrange to act in the capacity of his future wife, firstly, because she was of good family, and was not of the flighty order of women; secondly, because her great beauty appealed to the man in him. By no word or act up to this had she shaken his high opinion of her, and now from the mouth of a servant came this extraordinary invitation to meet her on the lawn at half-past ten. Besides, she knew that he had the influenza, and, knowing that, she had asked him to leave his bed and meet her at this untimely hour. This aggrieved him almost as much as the “fastness” of the proposition. Then the horrible thought came to him—can she know the real reason? He dismissed this at once. Besides, she would hardly call him out on the lawn late at night to commiserate with him on the loss of an eye, especially considering the nature of the eye, and the manner of its losing. At the foundation of his nature was a very snappish and nasty temper, easily aroused and brought to the surface by little things. This had to snap and snarl and have its say before pure reason could take the situation and deal with it. “Now,” said Pure Reason at last, “there is more in this than meets the eye. Of course, she does not want to see me for any reason connected—ahum—with our mutual esteem. She is a lady: she is not the class of girl to compromise herself. No matter how much she cares for me, she is the last person in the world to make a false move, unless sudden insanity can have seized her: She has some powerful motive for this, some very urgent reason.” He lay down on his bed again revolving matters in his mind, and presently General Grampound knocked at his door and came in to make enquiries and propositions about dinner.