Joan raised a quick warning hand. But the cry had been uttered; and with a sob Cynthia buried her face in her hands. "I am frightened now," she said. "You frighten me." Robert Daventry stood over her, clumsily remorseful, and laid his great hand on her shoulder. "There's nothing to fear, Cynthia," he began. "Joan and I--" he broke off abruptly at a second warning from his wife. "We will pack that man off about his business to-morrow." "Yes," said Mrs. Daventry. She had mastered her agitation, and now affected carelessness. "We can't really have Cynthia's birthday spoilt in this way." "No, of course not," cried Robert Daventry, seizing upon this explanation of his distress. But he could not leave it in its simplicity. "It's abominable that Cynthia should have her birthday spoilt. She has only one a year, poor girl. That's what's troubling us, Cynthia. Nothing else. But it's enough to upset us, isn't it? To think that you should actually have your birthday spoilt--by one of my men, too." So he went on, like a commentator on an ancient text, expanding the explanation, underlining it, and forcing upon Cynthia's intelligence its complete improbability. Even in the midst of her fears she could not but look with amusement toward Joan; and the two women exchanged the smile of their sex at the perennial clumsiness of man. "He shall go first thing to-morrow morning," cried Mr. Daventry; and Richard Walton quietly rejoined: "He has gone already. I paid him off this morning." Mr. Daventry ceased abruptly from his vociferations. "Thank you, Walton," he said. "Then that's ended," and he sat down. But he had hardly taken his seat when the door opened and the parlor-maid brought to him upon a salver a folded slip of dirty paper. "A man came with this to the door, sir. He is waiting for an answer." Robert Daventry unfolded the slip and read the message written within it. He did not lift his eyes when he had read. He sat staring at the paper like a statue. And he sat amidst a deep silence. The cloud which had but now been lifted, had gathered once more above the heads of that small company. Though Robert Daventry did not speak, his long silence spoke for him; and though he schooled his face to composure, it was plain that he schooled it. A vague disquiet held the others at the table. Not one of them but had a conviction that this dirty, insignificant, scrap of writing announced a catastrophe. Joan was the first to move. She walked round the table and stood behind her husband. He did not hear the rustle of her gown; and he was not aware that she leaned over him to read the message until the pressure of her hand upon his shoulder reminded him that she was his ally. "You had better see the man, Robert," she said. "He calls late, but probably he needs help." Thus she sought to pass the message off. "Very well, I will," said Robert. He turned to the parlor-maid. "Bring him to my study when I ring the bell."