and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they
need, or think they need, my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim
it."

"You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?" she begged.

He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast.

"No," he said, "I shall not go."

* * * * *

That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock,
examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the
afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of day
which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or
other, a certain sense of weariness crept in upon him towards its close.
The agricultural details in which he was accustomed to take so much
interest had fallen a little flat. He even found himself wondering,
after one of his best drives, whether it was well for the mind of a man
to be so utterly engrossed by the flight of that small white ball
towards its destination. More than once lately, despite his half-angry
rejection of them, certain memories, half-wistful, half-tantalising,
from the world of which he now saw so little, had forced their way in
upon his attention. This morning the lines of that brief note seemed to
stand out before him all the time with a curious vividness. In a way he
played the hypocrite to himself. He professed to have found that summons
disturbing and unwelcome, yet his thoughts were continually occupied
with it. He knew well that what would follow was inevitable, but he made
no sign.

Two days later he received another letter. This time it was couched in
different terms. On a square card, at the top of which was stamped a
small coronet, he read as follows:

"_Madame de Maupassim at home, Saturday evening, May 2nd, at ten
o'clock._"

In small letters at the bottom left-hand corner were added the words:

"_To meet friends._"

Peter Ruff put the card upon the fire and went out for a morning's
rabbit shooting with his keeper. When he returned, luncheon was ready,
but Violet was absent. He rang the bell.

"Where is your mistress, Jane?" he asked the parlourmaid.

The girl had no idea. Mrs. Ruff had left for the village several hours
ago. Since then she had not been seen.

Peter Ruff ate his luncheon alone and understood. The afternoon wore on,
and at night he travelled up to London. He knew better than to waste
time by purposeless