Before Collingwood could think of any suitable reply to this remarkably fresh and candid statement, the door opened, and Mrs. Mallathorpe came in, followed by her son. And the visitor suddenly and immediately noticed the force and meaning of Nesta Mallathorpe's last remark. Harper Mallathorpe, a good-looking, but not remarkably intelligent appearing young man, of about Collingwood's own age, gave him the instant impression of being bored to death; the lack-lustre eye, the aimless lounge, the hands thrust into the pockets of his Norfolk jacket as if they took refuge there from sheer idleness--all these things told their tale. Here, thought Collingwood, was a fine example of how riches can be a curse--relieved of the necessity of having to earn his daily bread by labour, Harper Mallathorpe was finding life itself laborious. But there was nothing of aimlessness, idleness, or lack of vigour in Mrs. Mallathorpe. She was a woman of character, energy, of brains--Collingwood saw all that at one glance. A little, neat-figured, compact sort of woman, still very good-looking, still on the right side of fifty, with quick movements and sharp glances out of a pair of shrewd eyes: this, he thought, was one of those women who will readily undertake the control and management of big affairs. He felt, as Mrs. Mallathorpe turned inquiring looks on him, that as long as she was in charge of them the Mallathorpe family fortunes would be safe. "Mother," said Nesta, handing Collingwood's card to Mrs. Mallathorpe, "this gentleman is Mr. Bartle Collingwood. He's--aren't you?--yes, a barrister. He wants to see you. Why, I don't know. I have seen Mr. Collingwood before--but he didn't remember me. Now he'll tell you what he wants to see you about." "If you'll allow me to explain why I called on you, Mrs. Mallathorpe," said Collingwood, "I don't suppose you ever heard of me--but you know, at any rate, the name of my grandfather, Mr. Antony Bartle, the bookseller, of Barford? My grandfather is dead--he died very suddenly last night." Mrs. Mallathorpe and Nesta murmured words of polite sympathy. Harper suddenly spoke--as if mere words were some relief to his obvious boredom. "I heard that, this morning," he said, turning to his mother. "Hopkins told me--he was in town last night. I meant to tell you." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe, glancing at some letters which stood on a rack above the mantelpiece. "Why--I had a letter from Mr. Bartle this very morning!"