Sir John turned, smiling, to greet Lady Cantourne. He did not appear to have heard, but in reality the remark had made a distinct impression on him. It signalised a new departure--the attack at a fresh quarter. Millicent had tried most methods--and she possessed many--hitherto in vain. She had attempted to coax him with a filial playfulness of demeanour, to dazzle him by a brilliancy which had that effect upon the majority of men in her train, to win him by respectful affection; but the result had been failure. She was now bringing her last reserve up to the front; and there are few things more dangerous, even to an old campaigner, than a confession of fear from the lips of a pretty girl. Sir John Meredith gave himself a little jerk--a throw back of the shoulders which was habitual--which might have been a tribute either to Millicent behind, or to Lady Cantourne in front. The pleasantest part of existence in a large country house full of visitors is the facility with which one may avoid those among the guests for whom one has no sympathy. Millicent managed very well to avoid Sir John Meredith. The baron was her slave--at least he said so--and she easily kept him at her beck and call during the first evening. It would seem that that strange hollow energy of old age had laid its hand upon Sir John Meredith, for he was the first to appear in the breakfast-room the next morning. He went straight to the sideboard where the letters and newspapers lay in an orderly heap. It is a question whether he had not come down early on purpose to look for a letter. Perhaps he could not stay in his bed with the knowledge that the postman had called. He was possibly afraid to ask his old servant to go down and fetch his letters. His bent and knotted hands fumbled among the correspondence, and suddenly his twitching lips were still. A strange stillness indeed overcame his whole face, turning it to stone. The letter was there; it had come, but it was not addressed to him. Sir John Meredith took up the missive; he looked at the back, turned it, and examined the handwriting of his own son. There was a whole volume--filled with pride, and love, and unquenchable resolve--written on his face. He threw the letter down among its fellows, and his hand went fumbling weakly at his lips. He gazed, blinking his lashless lids, at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently arrested his attention. It was of the same paper, of the same shape and hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne. Sir John drew a deep breath, and reached out his hand. The letter had come at last. At last, thank God! And how weakly ready he was to grasp at the olive branch held out to him across a continent!