man continued.

"He's only to ask," snapped Miss Spraggs.

"Anyway, we shall see," said Devitt.

"Should that happen, I trust you will never wish me to invite her to
the house," said Mrs Devitt, rising to her full height.

"It's all very sad," remarked Devitt gloomily.

"It is: that you should take her part in the way you do, Montague,"
retorted his wife.

"I'm sorry if you're upset," her husband replied. "But I knew Miss
Keeves as a little girl, when she was always laughin' and happy. It's
all very, very sad."

Mrs Devitt moved to a window, where she stood staring out at the
foliage which, just now, was looking self-conscious in its new finery.

"Who heard from Harold last?" asked Devitt presently.

"I did," replied Miss Spraggs. "It was on Tuesday he wrote."

"How did he write?"

"Quite light-heartedly. He has now for some weeks: such a change for
him."

"H'm!"

"Why do you ask?" said Mrs Devitt.

"I saw Pritchett when I was in town yesterday."

"Harold's doctor?" queried Miss Spraggs.

"He told me he'd seen Harold last week."

"At Swanage?"

"Harold had wired for him. I wondered if anythin' was up."

"What should be 'up,' as you call it, beyond his being either better or
worse?"

"That's what I want to know."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that it was more from Pritchett's manner than from anything else
that I gathered somethin' had happened."

"So long as he's well, there's nothing to worry about," said Mrs Devitt
reassuringly.

The late afternoon post brought a letter for Montague from his son
Harold. This told his father that a supreme happiness had come in his
life; that, by great good fortune, he had met and quietly married Mavis
Keeves; that, by her wish, the marriage had been kept a secret for
three weeks; it ended by saying how he hoped to bring his wife to his
father's house early in the following week. Montague Devitt stared
stupidly at the paper on which this information was conveyed; then he
leaned against the mantelpiece for support. He looked as if he had been
struck brutally and unexpectedly between the eyes. "Montague!
Montague!" cried his wife, as she noticed his distress.

The letter fell from his hands.

"Read!" he said faintly.

"Harold's writing!" exclaimed Mrs Devitt, as she caught up the letter.

Devitt watched her as she read; he saw her face grow hard; then her jaw
dropped; her eyes stared fixedly before her. When Miss Spraggs read the
letter, as she very s