"Holy Ann, no! Brain fever's a fell disease invented by novelists--I never met it in all _my_ experience. The doctors in novels have special advantages. No, it's influenza--pretty severe touch too. She ought to have been in bed days ago. She'll want careful looking after." "I see," said Vernon. "Any danger?" "There's always danger, Lord--Saint-Croix isn't it?" "I have not the honour to be Lady St. Craye's husband," said Vernon equably. "I was merely calling, and she seemed so ill that I took upon myself to--" "I see--I see. Well, if you don't mind taking on yourself to let her husband know? It's a nasty case. Temperature 104. Perhaps her husband 'ud be as well here as anywhere." "He's dead," said Vernon. "Oh!" said the doctor with careful absence of expression. "Get some woman to put her to bed and to stay with her till the nurse comes. She's in a very excitable state. Good afternoon. I'll look in after dinner." When Vernon had won the concierge to the desired service, had seen the nurse installed, had dined, called for news of Lady St. Craye, learned that she was "_toujours très souffrante_," he went home, pulled a table into the middle of his large, bare, hot studio, and sat down to write to the Reverend Cecil Underwood. "I mean to do it," he told himself, "and it can't hurt _her_ my doing it now instead of a month ahead, when she's well again. In fact, it's better for all of us to get it settled one way or another while she's not caring about anything." So he wrote. And he wrote a great deal, though the letter that at last he signed was quite short: My Dear Sir: I have the honour to ask the hand of your daughter in marriage. When you asked me, most properly, my intentions, I told you that I was betrothed to another lady. This is not now the case. And I have found myself wholly unable to forget the impression made upon me last year by Miss Desmond. My income is about £1,700 a year, and increases yearly. I beg to apologise for anything which may have annoyed you in my conduct last year, and to assure you that my esteem and affection for Miss Desmond are lasting and profound, and that, should she do me the honour to accept my proposal, I shall devote my life's efforts to secure her happiness. I am, my dear Sir, Your obedient servant, Eustace Vernon. "That ought to do the trick," he told himself. "Talk of old world courtesy and ceremonial! Anyhow, I shall know whether she's at Long Barton by the time it takes to get an answer. If it's two days, she's there. If it's longer she isn't. He'll send my letter on to her--unless he suppresses it. Your really pious people are so shockingly unscrupulous." There is nothing so irretrievable as a posted letter. This came home to Vernon as the envelope dropped on the others in the box at the Café du Dóme--came home to him rather forlornly. Next morning he called with more roses for Lady St. Craye, pinky ones this time.