t-office;
and I went mine back to the lodging.

Arrived in my room, I still held to the resolution which I had expressed
to Oscar in the street. Why should I leave my poor old father to go back
to England, and mix myself up in Lucilla's affairs? After the manner in
which she had taken her leave of me, had I any reasonable prospect of
being civilly received? Oscar was on his way to England--let Oscar manage
his own affairs; let them all three (Oscar, Nugent, Lucilla) fight it out
together among themselves. What had I, Pratolungo's widow, to do with
this trumpery family entanglement? Nothing! It was a warm day for the
time of year--Pratolungo's widow, like a wise woman, determined to make
herself comfortable. She unlocked her packed box; she removed her
traveling costume, and put on her dressing-gown; she took a turn in the
room--and, if you had come across her at that moment, I wouldn't have
stood in your shoes for something, I can tell you!

(What do you think of my consistency by this time? How often have I
changed my mind about Lucilla and Oscar? Reckon it up, from the time when
I left Dimchurch. What a picture of perpetual self-contradiction I
present--and how improbable it is that I should act in this illogical
way! _You_ never alter your mind under the influence of your temper or
your circumstances. No: you are, what they call, a consistent character.
And I? Oh, I am only a human being--and I feel painfully conscious that I
have no business to be in a book.)

In about half an hour's time, the servant appeared with a little paper
parcel for me. It had been left by a stranger with an English accent and
a terrible face. He had announced his intention of calling a little
later. The servant, a bouncing fat wench, trembled as she repeated the
message, and asked if there was anything amiss between me and the man
with the terrible face.

I opened the parcel. It contained my passport, and, sure enough, the
letter from Mrs. Finch. Had he opened it? Yes! He had not been able to
resist the temptation to read it. And more, he had written a line or two
on it in pencil, thus:--"As soon as I am fit to see you, I will implore
your pardon. I dare not trust myself in your presence yet. Read the
letter, and you will understand why."

I opened the letter.

It was dated the fifth of September. I ran over the first few sentences
carelessly enough. Thanks for my letter--congratulations on my father's
prospect of recovery--informati