She is a fine woman, father, fine and honourable and brave. Try to think of her apart from her father and her surroundings. She does not belong to them, truly she does not. In all these months she has not tried to persuade me to a mean and shabby thing. She is incapable of any meanness. In all this business my chief trouble is the unhappiness that this will bring you. You will think that this is easy to say when it has made no difference to what I have done. But all the same it is true, and perhaps later on, when you have got past a little of your anger with me, you will give me a chance to prove it. I have the promise of some literary work that should give me enough to live on. I have taken nothing with me; perhaps mother will pack up my things and send them to me at 5 Parker Street, St. John's Wood. Father, give me a chance to show you that I will make this right.--Your loving son, FALK BRANDON. * * * * * In the little morning-room to the right at the top of the stairs Joan and her mother were waiting. Joan was pretending to sew, but her fingers scarcely moved. Mrs. Brandon was sitting at her writing-table; her ears were straining for every sound. The sun flooded the room with a fierce rush of colour, and through the wide-open windows the noises of the town, cries and children's voices, and the passing of feet on the cobbles came up. As half-past ten struck the Cathedral bells began to ring for morning service. "Oh, I can't bear those bells," Mrs. Brandon cried. "Shut the windows, Joan." Joan went across and closed them. The bells were suddenly removed, but seemed to be the more insistent in their urgency because they were shut away. The door was suddenly flung open, and Brandon stood there. "Oh, what is it?" Mrs. Brandon cried, starting to her feet. He was a man convulsed with anger; she had seen him in these rages before, when his blue eyes stared with an emptiness of vision and his whole body seemed to be twisted as though he were trying to climb to some height whence he might hurl himself down and destroy utterly that upon which he fell. The letter tumbled from his hand. He caught the handle of the door as though he would tear it from its socket, but his voice, when at last it came, was quiet, almost his ordinary voice. "His name is never to be mentioned in this house again." "What has he done?" "That's enough. What I say. His name is never to be mentioned again." The two women stared at him. He seemed to come down from a great height, turned and went, very carefully closing the door behind him. He had left the letter on the floor. Mrs. Brandon went and picked it up. "Oh, mother, what has Falk done?" Joan asked. The bells danced all over the room. Brandon went downstairs, back into his study, closing his door, shutting himself in. He stayed in the middle of the room, saying aloud: