Great is that day when we see our
folly! Ripton and he were the friends of old. Richard encouraged him to
talk of the two he could be eloquent on, and Ripton, whose secret vanity
was in his powers of speech, never tired of enumerating Lucy's virtues,
and the peculiar attributes of the baby.

"She did not say a word against me, Rip?"

"Against you, Richard! The moment she knew she was to be a mother, she
thought of nothing but her duty to the child. She's one who can't think
of herself."

"You've seen her at Raynham, Rip?"

"Yes, once. They asked me down. And your father's so fond of her--I'm
sure he thinks no woman like her, and he's right. She is so lovely, and
so good."

Richard was too full of blame of himself to blame his father: too British
to expose his emotions. Ripton divined how deep and changed they were by
his manner. He had cast aside the hero, and however Ripton had obeyed him
and looked up to him in the heroic time, he loved him tenfold now. He
told his friend how much Lucy's mere womanly sweetness and excellence had
done for him, and Richard contrasted his own profitless extravagance with
the patient beauty of his dear home angel. He was not one to take her on
the easy terms that offered. There was that to do which made his cheek
burn as he thought of it, but he was going to do it, even though it lost
her to him. Just to see her and kneel to her was joy sufficient to
sustain him, and warm his blood in the prospect. They marked the white
cliffs growing over the water. Nearer, the sun made them lustrous. Houses
and people seemed to welcome the wild youth to common sense, simplicity,
and home.

They were in town by mid-day. Richard had a momentary idea of not driving
to his hotel for letters. After a short debate he determined to go there.
The porter said he had two letters for Mr. Richard Feverel--one had been
waiting some time. He went to the box and fetched them. The first Richard
opened was from Lucy, and as he read it, Ripton observed the colour
deepen on his face, while a quivering smile played about his mouth. He
opened the other indifferently. It began without any form of address.
Richard's forehead darkened at the signature. This letter was in a
sloping feminine hand, and flourished with light strokes all over, like a
field of the bearded barley. Thus it ran:

"I know you are in a rage with me because I would not consent to ruin
you, you foolish fellow. What do you call it? Going to that unp