“I am Evangeline Travers who writes,” I began, without any preface, “and I ask if you will see me--either here in my sitting-room this evening, or I will come to you at Vavasour House. I understand your brother, Lord Robert, has told you that he loves me, and wishes to marry me, and that you have refused your consent, partly because of the history of my family, but chiefly because my type displeases you. I believe, in days gone by, the prerogative of a great noble like you was to dispense justice. In my case it is still your prerogative by courtesy, and I ask it of you. When we have talked for a little, if you then hold to your opinion of me, and convince me that it is for your brother’s happiness, I swear to you on my word of honour I will never see him again. “Believe me, “Yours faithfully, “EVANGELINE TRAVERS.” I put it hastily in the envelope, and fastened it up. Then I rang the bell, and had it sent by a messenger in a cab, who was to wait for an answer. Oh! I wonder in life if I shall ever have to go through another twenty-five minutes like those that passed before the waiter brought a note up to me in reply. Even if the journal won’t shut I must put it in. “VAVASOUR HOUSE, “_St. James’s_, “_Nov. 28th_. “DEAR MADAM,--I have received your letter, and request you to excuse my calling upon you at your hotel this evening, as I am very unwell, but if you will do me the honour to come to Vavasour House on receipt of this, I will discuss the matter in question with you, and trust you will believe that you may rely upon my _justice_. “I remain, Madam, “Yours truly, “TORQUILSTONE.” “His grace’s brougham is waiting below for you, Madam,” the waiter said, and I flew to Véronique. I got her to dress me quickly. I wore the same things exactly as he had seen me in before, deep mourning they are, and extremely becoming. In about ten minutes Véronique and I were seated in the brougham and rolling on our way. I did not speak. I was evidently expected, for as the carriage stopped the great doors flew open, and I could see into the dim and splendid hall. A silver-haired, stately old servant led me along, through a row of powdered footmen, down a passage dimly lit with heavily shaded lights (Véronique was left to their mercies). Then the old man opened a door, and without announcing my name, merely, “The lady, your grace,” he held the door, and then went out and closed it softly. It was a huge room splendidly panelled with dark carved _boiserie_ Louis XV, the most beautiful of its kind I had ever seen, only it was so dimly lit with the same sort of shaded lamps one could hardly see into the corners. The Duke was crouching in a chair, he looked fearfully pale and ill, and had an inscrutable expression on his face. Fancy a man so old-looking, and crippled, being even Robert’s half-brother! I came forward; he rose with difficulty, and this is the conversation we had.