I was detained at my office by other matters, which our family troubles had caused me to neglect, until supper-time, and then I returned to my own home, expecting to have a little chat over the affair with Maria before acquainting the rest of the family with my impressions of Goward and his responsibility for our woe. Maria is always so full of good ideas, but at half-past six she had not come in, and at six-forty-five she 'phoned me that she was at her father's and would I not better go there for tea. In the Talbert family a suggestion of that sort is the equivalent of a royal command in Great Britain, and I at once proceeded to accept it. As I was leaving the house, however, the thought flashed across my mind that in my sympathy for Harry Goward I had neglected to ask him the question I had sought him out to ask, “To whom was the letter addressed?” So I returned to the 'phone, and ringing up the Eagle Hotel, inquired for Mr. Goward. “Mr. Goward!” came the answer. “Yes,” said I. “Mr. Henry Goward.” “Mr. Goward left for New York on the 5.40 train this afternoon,” was the reply. The answer, so unexpected and unsettling to all my plans, stunned me first and then angered me. “Bah!” I cried, impatiently. “The little fool! An attack of cold feet, I guess--he ought to spell his name with a C.” I hung up the receiver with a cold chill, for frankly I hated to go to the Talberts' with the news. Moreover, it would be a humiliating confession to make that I had forgotten to ask Goward about the letter, when everybody knew that that was what I had called upon him for, and when I thought of all the various expressions in the very expressive Talbert eyes that would fix themselves upon me as I mumbled out my confession, I would have given much to be well out of it. Nevertheless, since there was no avoiding the ordeal, I resolved to face the music, and five minutes later entered the dining-room at my father-in-law's house with as stiff an upper lip as I could summon to my aid in the brief time at my disposal. They were all seated at the table already--supper is not a movable feast in that well-regulated establishment--save Aunt Elizabeth. Her place was vacant. “Sorry to be late,” said I, after respectfully saluting my mother-in-law, “but I couldn't help it. Things turned up at the last minute and they had to be attended to. Where's Aunt Elizabeth?” “She went to New York,” said my mother-in-law, “on the 5.40 train.” VII. THE MARRIED SON, by Henry James