“I knew you would come back this way,” she said, “and I intercepted you. It is so little that I am able to do alone. That letter, now—it was not my letter, I did not wish it, it was Sir Edmund’s. Sir Edmund was implacable, but I—I knew that blame cannot be cast like that, just on one, and Ronnie was so fascinating, how could a girl help falling in love with him? But Sir Edmund could not see it. All he could see was Rose as a temptress and the ruin of his son and his name. You know how I have to give way to him? Believe me, I have regretted it ever since, and nothing but very wicked pride—we were always so proud, we Ancasters—has kept me from trying to see you sooner. But now my pride is humbled. Poor Sir Edmund—I don’t know what he would say if he knew I was talking to you like this—poor Sir Edmund is ill, and you must forgive us for his sake. Say you will. No doctor but you inspires any confidence. We have tried so many.” “I forgave you long ago,” I said. “Then you will come to the Hall again? Quickly? Will you? Sir Edmund is ill. I don’t know what it is, but something grave, something new and mysterious. Never mind about me”—she groaned again—“but he, poor darling! he must be looked after, he must be healed. You will do this for my sake? You will come to us again?” “I must think about it,” I said. “It is not quite as simple as you seem to suppose. I have been very oddly treated in a very public manner.” “I know you’ll come,” she cried, as I returned to my car. “You have such a good heart and I am so penitent.” That evening I was sitting over my cigar after dinner—Rose having gone to bed—when the servant announced a gentleman to see me. “What name?” I asked, for I was enjoying some well-earned repose, and indiscriminate callers had to be guarded against; but before she could reply a muffled-up figure was in the room. Removing his scarf, cap and goggles, he revealed himself as Sir Edmund Fergusson. “You must excuse this visit,” he began nervously, “after what has happened, but it has been on my mind for a long while to explain.” “Won’t you sit down?” I said. “You are very kind,” he replied, taking a seat, while a spasm of pain crossed his heavy features. “The fact is—but that has nothing to do with it. What I want to do is to explain. This unhappy business of Ronnie has broken us up, but I want you to know—” He broke off and again a twinge took him. “Would you mind if I were to light my pipe?” he asked. I offered him cigars. “You are too kind,” he said, taking one. “More than I deserve really. But—”—he lit it—“you, well, the best way I can put it is perhaps to say you are not a married man.” I agreed.