He went down the street to where his dogcart was waiting for him, and mounting to his seat, drove off in the direction of the farm; but before he had gone more than half a mile along the road he turned his horse about, and drove quickly back to Framsby. He pulled up at the post office, and, descending, entered the place and, after a considerable amount of thought, composed and wrote out a telegram. Then he mounted his dogcart and drove off to his farm. CHAPTER XXI It was barely ten o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Wingfield, telling her maid that she felt that this was going to be one of her good days, got her seat moved out of the shady part of the terrace into the region of the fitful sunlight that had followed a liquid dawn. The day was a grey one, with lazy pacing clouds very high up in the air; and the occasional glimpses of tempered brilliance which the land was allowed between the folds of the billowy vapour, were very grateful to the lady. She had letters and a book and a writing-case. She had scarcely settled herself down among her cushions before she heard the sound of wheels on the carriage drive--she could not have heard it if her chair had remained on the shady part of the terrace. Then came the sound of a man’s voice--imperative--insistent--set off by the murmured replies of the butler. The insistence became more insistent, and the replies louder--more staccato. Then the butler appeared on the terrace. “Mr. Wadhurst is here, ma’am--says his business is important. I told him that you were not at home to anyone in the morning unless by appointment; but he said it was very important--in fact that he must see you, ma’am. I did my best to put him off---I did indeed, ma’am; it was no use. He’s not easy put off. So I said I would see if you would. If not, ma’am, I’ll-----” “Certainly I’ll see Mr. Wadhurst,” said Mrs. Wingfield when the butler had murmured his explanations to her. “Ask him to be good enough to come on the terrace. Draw that cane chair closer.” “Very good, ma’am,” said the butler, retiring with dignity and leaving the lady to wonder what Farmer Wadhurst could possibly want with her at that hour of the morning. She had never seen Farmer Wadhurst. She saw him now. A large man with big bones, a slight stoop and a suggestion of Saxon sandiness about his hair and beard. She rose to greet him, and the butler once more retired. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Wadhurst,” she said. “I think it is very likely that, if you had not come here to me, I should have ventured to pay you a visit.” “What, have you heard something?” he asked eagerly. “Heard something? Well, nothing more than your daughter told me, Mr. Wadhurst,” she replied. “But, surely, if my son and your daughter have made up their minds, you and I should not turn cold shoulders to them. Priscilla, I know, feels deeply your----”