“Is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand.” He hung fire again. “A woman’s. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me the pages in question before she died.” They were all listening now, and of course there was somebody to be arch, or at any rate to draw the inference. But if he put the inference by without a smile it was also without irritation. “She was a most charming person, but she was ten years older than I. She was my sister’s governess,” he quietly said. “She was the most agreeable woman I’ve ever known in her position; she would have been worthy of any whatever. It was long ago, and this episode was long before. I was at Trinity, and I found her at home on my coming down the second summer. I was much there that year--it was a beautiful one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden--talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; don’t grin: I liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me too. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have told me. She had never told anyone. It wasn’t simply that she said so, but that I knew she hadn’t. I was sure; I could see. You’ll easily judge why when you hear.” “Because the thing had been such a scare?” He continued to fix me. “You’ll easily judge,” he repeated: “_you_ will.” I fixed him too. “I see. She was in love.” He laughed for the first time. “You _are_ acute. Yes, she was in love. That is, she had been. That came out--she couldn’t tell her story without its coming out. I saw it, and she saw I saw it; but neither of us spoke of it. I remember the time and the place--the corner of the lawn, the shade of the great beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. It wasn’t a scene for a shudder; but oh----!” He quitted the fire and dropped back into his chair. “You’ll receive the packet Thursday morning?” I inquired. “Probably not till the second post.” “Well then; after dinner----” “You’ll all meet me here?” He looked us round again. “Isn’t anybody going?” It was almost the tone of hope. “Everybody will stay!” “_I_ will--and _I_ will!” cried the ladies whose departure had been fixed. Mrs. Griffin, however, expressed the need for a little more light. “Who was it she was in love with?” “The story will tell,” I took upon myself to reply. “Oh, I can’t wait for the story!” “The story _won’t_ tell,” said Douglas; “not in any literal, vulgar way.” “More’s the pity, then. That’s the only way I ever understand.” “Won’t _you_ tell, Douglas?” somebody else inquired. He sprang to his feet again. “Yes--tomorrow. Now I must go to bed. Good-night.” And quickly catching up a candlestick, he left us slightly bewildered. From our end of the great brown hall we heard his step on the stair; whereupon Mrs. Griffin spoke. “Well, if I don’t know who she was in love with, I know who _he_ was.” “She was ten years older,” said her husband. “_Raison de plus_--at that age! But it’s rather nice, his long reticence.”