That same evening Colonel Lumley went down to Thornby, where he was warmly welcomed by his relatives. He dined at Oldcourt, and as he and Letty sat once more at the table of a hostess who had once rashly attempted to lend a hand to Fate--they were a striking pair--though eighteen years had elapsed since their last meeting in that very room. In spite of the cruel shocks of fortune, Letty was still a beautiful woman; the line of her features, the delicacy of her skin, the shine on her glorious hair, had not been tarnished. She looked radiant in mauve chiffon, and wearing her mother’s Indian pearls. Her fiancé, bronzed and in a way storm-beaten, was handsome; the wearer of three well-deserved medals, and a leader of men--but the simple girl of seventeen, and young, eager, and impassioned Lancelot, were no more. The following afternoon they walked together to the crooked bridge, so well remembered by both; they recalled that winter sunset, the spasmodic talk, the expressive silence of many years ago; between then and now, what a stretch of wide experience! “If I had only spoken out the last time I was here,” said Lumley, “what a lot it would have saved us! I daresay we would have been married in a couple of years, and when our hearts were younger--though for you, Letty, mine has never changed!” “Aunt Dorothy would never have allowed it,” replied Letty with decision; “never. And you know how she persuaded your aunt to tell me, that an engagement between us, would be your _ruin_.” “Good Lord, what a woman!” “I really married Hugo because I was terrified of her.” “Yes, unfortunate child, and went straight out of the frying-pan, into the fire.” “But, Lancelot, I was the last sort of wife for Hugo. I always seemed to do the wrong thing. I believe, he would have been quite happy with a woman of his own world. I was an experiment; a mistake,” and her lip quivered. “A costly mistake for you! Poor Letty,” and he looked at her with peculiar tenderness. Now at last she should have someone to protect her; someone to stand between her, and the buffetings of Fate. “Where is your aunt?” he enquired, “dead?” the tone was positively hopeful. “No, indeed, she is married again to a man ten years younger than herself. They live at Brighton on her money; and I’m told,--though this is dreadful gossip,--that he gambles and flirts, and leads her rather a life; but he is _very_ good-looking, and she adores him.” “Impossible! She never adored anything in her life but a blue plate! Letty, to turn to another much more interesting subject--you will marry me soon, won’t you--in a week?” “Oh, no, Lancelot--he was only buried at Sharsley on Friday. Let us wait a month, since”--and she swallowed a lump in her throat--“we have waited so long.” “Well, all right, a month, so be it; a month from to-day.” Later, as they strolled towards the village, Lumley said: