Her father's question was like a blow, shocking her back to consciousness. The warm dream that all was well, that she was understood, that there was love and kindliness for her at home after all and welcome and encouragement, the warm feeling of stretching herself in her family's kind lap, confident that it would hold her up and not spill her out on to the floor, was gone in a flash. She was hit awake, hit out of her brief delicious sleep. Her family had not got a lap, but it had an entirely unprepared mind, and into that unprepared mind she had tumbled the name of Dremmel. "Judith--engaged?" she stammered faintly, on the Bishop's wheeling round, cup in hand, to examine into the cause of her prolonged silence. "Your incredulity is not very flattering to your sister," he said; and Judith's eyelashes as she concentrated her gaze on the teapot were alone sufficiently lovely, the curved, dusky-golden soft things, to make incredulity simply silly. Mrs. Bullivant avoided all speech and clung to her sofa. "It's--so sudden," faltered Ingeborg. "Much may happen in a week," said the Bishop. "Yes," murmured Ingeborg, who knew that terribly, too. "We never can tell what a day may bring forth," said the Bishop; and Ingeborg, deeply convinced, drooped her head acquiescent. "No man," began the Bishop, habit being strong within him, "knoweth the hour when the bridegroom--" But he stopped, recollecting that Ingeborg was not engaged and therefore could not with propriety be talked to of bridegrooms. Instead, he inquired again why she had not written; and eyeing her searchingly asked himself if it were possible that a child of his could be base enough to envy. "I--didn't get the letters," said Ingeborg, her head drooping. "You did not? That is very strange. Your mother wrote at once. Let me see. It was on Friday it happened. It _was_ Friday, was it not, Judith? _You_ ought to know"--Judith blushed obediently--"and to-day is Tuesday. Ample time. Ample time. My dear," he said, turning to his wife who at once twitched into a condition of yet further relaxed defencelessness, "do you think it possible your letter was not posted?" "Quite, Herbert," murmured Mrs. Bullivant, closing her eyes and endeavouring to imagine herself unconscious. "Ah. Then that's it. That's it. Wilson is growing careless. This last week there have been repeated negligences. You will make inquiries, Ingeborg, and tell him what I have said." "Yes, father." "And you will discharge him if he goes on like this." "Yes, father." "Unfaithful servant. Unfaithful servant. He that is unfaithful in a few things--" The Bishop, frowning at it, took a second piece of bread and butter, and went over to the hearthrug, where he stood from force of habit, in spite of the warmth of the day, drinking his tea, and becoming vaguely and increasingly irritated by the action of the fire behind him. "Then," he said, looking at Ingeborg, "you know nothing about it?"