It was the kindest thing she had said to him. As they went on talking, Karl became more and more convinced, from chance expressions, that she was in ignorance of his engagement and approaching marriage. When Hewitt had finally left them together after dinner, Karl told her of it. It turned out that Mrs. Andinnian had never received the letter from Paris: though where the fault lay, Karl could not divine. He remembered that he had given it to the waiter of the Hôtel Montaigne to post--a man he had always found to be very exact. Whether he had neglected it, or whether the loss lay at the door of the post itself, the fact was the same--it had never reached Mrs. Andinnian. She started violently when Karl told her. He noticed it particularly, because she was in general so cold and calm a woman. After staring at Karl for a minute or two she turned her gaze to the fire and sat in silence, listening to him. "Married!" she exclaimed, when he had stopped. "Married!--and your brother scarcely cold in his dishonoured grave! It must not be, Karl." Karl explained to her why it must be. Lucy's health required a more genial climate, and he had to take her to one without delay. When respect for the dead and consideration for the living clash, it was right and just that the former should give way, he observed. Mrs. Andinnian did not interrupt him; and he went on to state the arrangements he had completed as to Lucy's settlement. He then intimated, in the most delicate words he could use, that their proposed prolonged residence abroad would afford his mother at present undisturbed possession of Foxwood; and he mentioned the income (a very liberal one) he had secured to her for life. She never answered a word. She made no comment whatever, good or bad; but sat gazing into the fire as before. Karl thought she was hopelessly offended with him. He said that he had a letter to write. Mrs. Andinnian gave a dash at the bell and ordered Hewitt to place ink and paper before Sir Karl. When tea came in she spoke a few words--asking whether he would take sugar and such like--but, that excepted, maintained her silence. Afterwards, she sat at the fire again in her arm-chair; buried in disturbed thought; and then she rose to pace the room with uncertain steps, like one who is racked by anxious perplexity. At first Karl felt both annoyed and vexed, for he thought she was making more of the matter than she need have done; but soon he began to doubt whether she had not some trouble upon her apart from him and his concerns. A word, that unwittingly escaped her, confirmed him in this. "Mother," he said, "you seem to be in great distress of your own: for I cannot believe that any proceedings of mine would thus disturb you." "I am, Karl. I am." "Will you not let me share it, then?--and, if possible, soothe it? You will find me a true son."