found change....

He began to feel glad that he had waited, that she had insisted upon
patience, that there had been no disaster, no scandal between them. Now
everything was clear for them. He had served his apprenticeship. They
would be able to marry, and have no quarrel with the world.

He sat with his mind forming images of the prospect before him, images
that were at first feeble and vague, and then, though still in a silly
way, more concrete and definite. At first they were quite petty
anticipations, of how he would have to tell people of his approaching
marriage, of how he would break it to George Edmund that a new mother
impended. He mused for some time upon the details of that. Should he
take her down to George Edmund's school, and let the boy fall in love
with her--he would certainly fall in love with her--before anything
definite was said, or should he first go down alone and break the news?
Each method had its own attractive possibilities of drama.

Then Mr. Brumley began to think of the letter he must write Lady
Harman--a difficult letter. One does not rejoice at death. Already Mr.
Brumley was beginning to feel a generous pity for the man he had done
his utmost not to detest for so long. Poor Sir Isaac had lived like a
blind thing in the sunlight, gathering and gathering, when the pride and
pleasure of life is to administer and spend.... Mr. Brumley fell
wondering just how she could be feeling now about her dead husband. She
might be in a phase of quite real sorrow. Probably the last illness had
tired and strained her. So that his letter would have to be very fine
and tender and soothing, free from all harshness, free from any
gladness--yet it would be hard not to let a little of his vast relief
peep out. Always hitherto, except for one or two such passionate lapses
as that which had precipitated the situation at Santa Margherita, his
epistolary manner had been formal, his matter intellectual and
philanthropic, for he had always known that no letter was absolutely
safe from Sir Isaac's insatiable research. Should he still be formal,
still write to "Dear Lady Harman," or suddenly break into a new warmth?
Half an hour later he was sitting in the writing-room with some few
flakes of torn paper on the carpet between his feet and the partially
filled wastepaper basket, still meditating upon this difficult issue of
the address.

The letter he achieved at last began, "My dear Lady," and went on to, "I
do not kn