a stranger; but
he was not going to permit himself to dwell upon that. She could not be
really cold-blooded with that face: its every line bespoke capability of
exquisite passion. It was not the least cunning, or calculating, either.
It was simply adorable. And to kiss! But here he pulled himself together
and wrote to his mother a note, short and to the point, which she
received by the first post next morning at her small, house in Queen
Street, Mayfair; and then he went to bed. The note ran:

"My Dear Mother:

"I am going to be married at last. The lady is a daughter of Maurice
Grey (a brother of old Colonel Grey of Hentingdon who died last year),
and the widow of a Pole named Shulski, Countess Shulski she is called."

(He had paused here because he had suddenly remembered he did not know
her Christian name!)

"She is also the niece of Francis Markrute whom you have such an
objection to--or had, last season. She is most beautiful and I hope you
will like her. Please go and call to-morrow. I will come and breakfast
with you about ten.

"Your affectionate son, Tancred."

And this proud English mother knew here was a serious letter, because he
signed it "Tancred." He usually finished his rare communications with
just, "love from Tristram."

She leaned back on her pillows and closed her eyes. She adored her son
but she was, above all things, a woman of the world and given to making
reasonable judgments. Tristram was past the age of a foolish
entanglement; there must be some strong motive in this action. He could
hardly be in love. She knew him so well, when he was in love! He had
shown no signs of it lately--not, really, for several years--for that
well conducted--friendship--with Laura Highford could not be called
being in love. Then she thought of Francis Markrute. He was so immensely
rich, she could not help a relieved sigh. There would be money at all
events. But she knew that could not be the reason. She was aware of her
son's views about rich wives. She was aware, too, that with all his
sporting tastes and modern irreverence of tradition, underneath he was
of a proud, reserved nature, intensely proud of the honor of his ancient
name. What then could be the reason for this engagement? Well, she would
soon know. It was half-past eight in the morning, and Tristram's "about
ten" would not mean later than, half-past, or a quarter to eleven. She
rang the bell for her maid, and told her to ask the young ladies to p