Our thoughts had all been turned for the moment from our own affairs by the romance of my dear niece Phyllida's engagement to Colonel Butler. Alas! when we came back to London, it was to find what I then regarded as a sword _still_ suspended over our heads, _still_ hanging by a hair. Since the night when Sir Appleton Deepe dined with us to discuss the appointment for Will, this girl Molly Phenton had not been near the house. For a week before that she had been calling, waiting, writing--always protesting that my boy had given her a promise of marriage. As it was impossible for them to marry without money, I refused to believe that Will had promised; not believing this story of a promise, I felt that she was trying to blackmail us; feeling _that_, I declined to see her. One thing followed automatically from another. It was not until she called that evening and Sir Appleton--_rather_ officiously, if you'll promise not to tell any one I said so--insisted on interviewing her, that I learned the truth about her condition. _Then_, I am sure, we should all have agreed that Will must marry her at once, but Sir Appleton would give us no time. I suppose concentration on one object is very necessary in business, but it _does_ limit a man's outlook: Sir Appleton could see but this one thing. "My good sir," I wanted to tell him, "shew us _how_ it is to be done, and it _will_ be done." But he would not discuss the appointment, though he had given me as solemn a promise as a man can give; he dashed home, after sending this girl on ahead, and we heard no more of them. I felt that it was useless to talk to my boy just then, because he was so much worried that anything more might have brought on a complete break-down. My husband too... I respect Arthur's judgement at other times, but, where his own son is concerned, I find him curiously unsympathetic. I pretended to myself that I was trying to find a new opening for Will, now that Sir Appleton had played us so shamefully false, but I'm afraid that I was simply letting things drift... Then my brother-in-law Spenworth paid me the rare honour of a visit. He had come up from Cheniston on purpose, though--to judge from his voice--you would have thought he was still trying to make himself heard from the fastnesses of Warwickshire... "Well, my dear Ann," he roared, "I've come to give you a piece of my mind."