us, reproachful.--Shame for those that took him
in and made him, a ruined reputation, a spoiled tradition: he had been
but a heathen after all! There was only left to bid him farewell, and to
enclose a cheque for two thousand pounds.

Captain Maudsley called him a fool, and asked him what he meant to
do--hoped he would give up the woman at once, and come back. He owed
something to his position as Master of the Hounds--a tradition that
oughtn't to be messed about.

There it all was: not a word about radical morality or immorality; but
the tradition of Family, the Commons, Master of the Hounds!

But there was another letter. He did not recognise the handwriting, and
the envelope had a black edge. He turned it over and over, forgetting
that Andree was watching him. Looking up, he caught her eyes, with
their strange, sad look. She guessed what was in these letters. She knew
English well enough to under stand them. He interpreted her look, and
pushed them over.

"You may read them, if you wish; but I wouldn't, if I were you."

She read the telegram first, and asked who "Faramond" was. Then she read
Sir William Belward's letter, and afterwards Captain Maudsley's.

"It has all come at once," she said: "the girl and these! What will you
do? Give 'the woman' up for the honour of the Master of the Hounds?"

The tone was bitter, exasperating. Gaston was patient.

"What do you think, Andree?"

"It has only begun," she said. "Wait, King of Ys. Read that other
letter."

Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a
strange slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the
superscription of a street in Manchester Square:

If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I
know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want
to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know
that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot
believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you
have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul's good. Think of
that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my
brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather,
before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!--and I also
have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one
who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and
happy....

Then followed a de