The day of the funeral came at last, and Mr. Brumley tried not to think of it, paternally, at Margate. He fled from Sir Isaac’s ultimate withdrawal. Blenker’s obituary notice in the _Old Country Gazette_ was a masterpiece of tactful eulogy, ostentatiously loyal, yet extremely not unmindful of the widowed proprietor, and of all the possible changes of ownership looming ahead. Mr. Brumley, reading it in the Londonward train, was greatly reminded of the Hostels. That was a riddle he didn’t begin to solve. Of course, it was imperative the Hostels should continue—imperative. Now they might run them together, openly, side by side. But then, with such temptations to hitherto inconceivable vulgarities. And again, insidiously, those visions returned of two figures, manifestly opulent, grouped about a big motor car or standing together under a large subservient archway.... There was a long letter from her at his flat, a long and amazing letter. It was so folded that his eye first caught the writing on the third page: “_never marry again. It is so clear that our work needs all my time and all my means._” His eyebrows rose, his expression became consternation; his hands trembled a little as he turned the letter over to read it through. It was a deliberate letter. It began— “_Dear Mr. Brumley, I could never have imagined how much there is to do after we are dead, and before we can be buried._” “Yes,” said Mr. Brumley; “but what does this _mean_?” “_There are so many surprises_——” “It isn’t clear.” “_In ourselves and the things about us._” “Of course, he would have made some complicated settlement. I might have known.” “_It is the strangest thing in the world to be a widow, much stranger than anyone could ever have supposed, to have no one to control one, no one to think of as coming before one, no one to answer to, to be free to plan one’s life for oneself_——” He stood with the letter in his hand after he had read it through, perplexed. “I can’t stand this,” he said. “I want to know.” He went to his desk and wrote:— “_My Dear, I want you to marry me._” What more was to be said? He hesitated with this brief challenge in his hand, was minded to telegraph it and thought of James’s novel, _In the Cage_. Telegraph operators are only human after all. He determined upon a special messenger and rang up his quarter valet—he shared service in his flat—to despatch it. The messenger boy got back from Putney that evening about half-past eight. He brought a reply in pencil. “_My dear Friend_,” she wrote. “_You have been so good to me, so helpful. But I do not think that is possible. Forgive me. I want so badly to think and here I cannot think. I have never been able to think here. I am going down to Black Strand, and in a day or so I will write and we will talk. Be patient with me._” She signed her name “_Ellen_”; always before she had been “E. H.” “Yes,” cried Mr. Brumley, “but I want to know!” He fretted for an hour and went to the telephone.