It was rather a queer letter. Karl thought so as he studied it. By one of the sentences in it, it almost seemed as though Mrs. Andinnian were not aware of his projected marriage. The longer he reflected, the more desirable did it appear to him that he should see her. So he wrote again, craving pardon for disobeying her, but saying he must come down. About six-o'clock in the evening he reached Foxwood. It was the last day of his stay; on the following one he must depart for Paris. A servant-maid admitted him, and Hewitt came out of the dining-room. The man's face wore a look of surprise. "I suppose my mother is expecting me, Hewitt." "I think not, Sir Karl. I took a telegram to the station this morning, sir, to stop your coming," he added in a confidential tone, as he opened the door to announce his master. Mrs. Andinnian was dining in solitary state in the solitary dining-room. She let fall her knife and fork, and rose up with an angry glare. Her dress was of the deepest mourning, all crape. Save the widow's cap, she had not put on mourning so deep for her husband as she wore for her ill-fated son. "How did you dare to come, after my prohibitory telegram, Karl?" she exclaimed, imperiously. "I have had no telegram from you, mother," was his reply. "None whatever." "One was sent to you this morning." "I missed it, then. I have been about London all day, and did not return to the hotel before coming here." He had been standing close to her with his hand extended. She looked fixedly at him for a few moments, and then allowed her hand to meet his. "It cannot be helped, now; but I am not well enough to entertain visitors," she remarked. "Hewitt, Sir Karl will take some dinner." "You surely do not look on me as a visitor," he said, smiling, and taking the chair at table that Hewitt placed. But, for all the smile, there was pain at his heart. "My stay will be a very short one, mother," he added, "for I must be away long before dawn to-morrow morning." "The shorter the better," answered Mrs. Andinnian. And Sir Karl could not help feeling that it was scarcely the thing to say to a man coming to his own house. He observed that only Hewitt was waiting at table: that no one else was called to bring in things required by the fact of his unexpected intrusion. Hewitt had to go backwards and forwards. During one of these absences Karl asked his mother _why_ she should have objected to his coming. "You have been told," she answered. "I am not in a state to bear the least excitement or to see any one. No visitor whatever is welcomed at Foxwood. My troubles are great, Karl." "I wish I could lighten them for you, mother." "You only increase them. But not willingly, I am sure, Karl. No fault lies with you."