After the service he saw Somerville; he was presented to Mrs. Latheby, who remembered his mother, and told him so; adding with the regretful smile which lent such pathos and sweetness to her proud and still beautiful face: ‘Ah, Mr. Wellfield, if that beautiful mother of yours had been here to-day, how happy she would have been in what she had heard ... and it gives me a melancholy pleasure to think that had she lived to bring you up, you might have been standing here, one of us, not a looker-on, out in the cold.’ ‘You are far too good, madam, to think of me at all,’ he replied, moved somewhat by her words, and yet under the influence of the emotion which the cardinal’s word-picture had aroused. ‘I must ever take an interest in the only son of Annunciata Wellfield,’ she answered; ‘and I want you to come and see me–will you?’ ‘I shall only be too honoured.’ ‘Then I shall write this week, and appoint a day for you and Mr. Somerville to dine at Latheby–if you can come, father.’ ‘I shall no doubt be able to come,’ replied Somerville. Mrs. Latheby waited in the parlour to have an interview with his Eminence. Somerville walked with Wellfield along the lane towards his home. Wellfield told him what had happened. ‘I am superstitious, I suppose, according to your notions,’ said Somerville, ‘and I call it a sign.’ ‘I do not call it superstition,’ stammered Wellfield. ‘I have myself been thinking to-day that–that—’ ‘That you ought to follow my advice, and ask for Miss Bolton’s hand,’ was the firm, decided reply. ‘If it were not for this miserable business in the background——’ ‘It is your duty to tell the truth to one lady, or to get some one to do it for you,’ said Somerville, in a smooth, even voice, which yet cut his hearer like a whip. He winced. ‘If you mean to stay here, you ought at least in duty and honour either to propose to Miss Bolton, or to tell her that you are bound to another woman.’ ‘Do you suppose I don’t know that?’ retorted Wellfield, almost fiercely. ‘Have I not been debating within myself until I am almost mad, how to tell her.’ ‘You are nervous, perhaps. Would you like me to do it for you?’ ‘You–heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed passionately. ‘That would be to ruin–I mean, I must think about it again. I will decide to-morrow.’ ‘As you are taking the matter into consideration,’ observed Somerville, with scarcely disguised insolence, ‘I would really strongly advise you to reflect whether it would not be in every way more advisable to tell the other lady that you wish to be free.’ ‘Do you wish to insult me?’ asked Wellfield, pale with passion. ‘To insult you! I am simply trying to advise you for the best. Remember, you are now dependent upon this post of Mr. Bolton’s. If you, or anyone else, lets Miss Bolton know that you are engaged elsewhere, it might be bad for your prospects. Girls who have an idea–however mistaken–that their feelings have been trifled with, are apt to be vindictive.’