He was in a position to take notice of her when she met him face to face coming out of the hotel door when she was at the point of entering. “Go in and make your enquiries, ma’am,” he said grimly. “You will find out whether your opinion or mine of your son is the true one.” “What, is it possible that--that--he--they----” “They are here. Make your enquiries.” He went away, and she entered the hotel and hastened to the office. Oh, yes; Mr. Wingfield was staying there, the young lady said. “Alone?” asked the mother. “Only Mrs. Wingfield. They will be in for lunch at one. They have been sailing since morning,” was the reply. Mrs. Wingfield could scarcely walk so far as the coffee-room. When she managed to do so, she found that her maid had justified the character she had always borne for thoughtfulness: a slice of cold chicken and a small bottle of dry Ayala were on the table in front of her. “You must eat and drink now,” she said. “This promised to be one of your good days; but that rush to the train and that long journey will go far to make it one of your worst if we are not careful.” Of course the maid knew, as did every one at the Manor, of the ridiculous visit of Farmer Wadhurst, and she was one of the few who guessed rightly what was its purport. She was fully aware of all that was meant by this breathless flight to the coast, and, as she had had something like forty years’ experience of the world and the wickedness of men and the credulity of women and the ambiguity of the word Love, she had never for a moment doubted what would be the issue of this journey. It was not at all necessary for Mrs. Wingfield to say to her, as she did while the champagne was creaming in the glass: “Walters, Mr. Wingfield is here, and I have just learned that Miss Wadhurst is here also--you saw Mr. Wadhurst and you will know, I am sure, that it would never do for them to meet.” “It must be prevented at any cost, ma’am,” acquiesced Walters. “Where’s Mr. Wingfield and Miss Wadhurst just now?” “They are out sailing; they will be here for lunch at one. It is necessary that I should meet them.” “Quite so, ma’am. It’s a pity; but you’ll do it. This is one of your good days. To-morrow will most likely be one of your worst. But it can’t be helped.” “It cannot be helped. If I were to fail to meet them before--before anyone else can meet them--there would be no more good days for me in the world, Walters.” “Drink the champagne, ma’am, and rest quite still for half an hour and you’ll be able to do it without risk.” Mrs. Wingfield obeyed her. She took some mouthfuls of the chicken and then drank two glasses of the champagne. Her maid had spied a comfortable chair overlooking the tennis lawns close at hand and the sea in the distance. To this she led Mrs. Wingfield, and there she left her with a wrap about her knees, to wait for her anxious half-hour.