Under these circumstances, whatever suspicion Marston might have felt on the receipt of the unexpected, and indeed unaccountable proposal, which had just reached him, he certainly had little reason to complain of any violation of early friendship in the neglect with which Sir Wynston had hitherto treated him.  In deciding to decline his proposed visit, however, Marston had not consulted the impulses of spite or anger.  He knew the baronet well; he knew that he cherished no good will towards him, and that in the project which he had thus unexpectedly broached, whatever indirect or selfish schemes might possibly be at the bottom of it, no friendly feeling had ever mingled.  He was therefore resolved to avoid the trouble and the expense of a visit in all respects distasteful to him, and in a gentlemanlike way, but, at the same time, as the reader may suppose, with very little anxiety as to whether or not his gay correspondent should take offence at his reply, to decline, once for all, the proposed distinction.

With this resolution, he entered the spacious and somewhat dilapidated mansion which called him master; and entering a sitting room, appropriated to his daughter’s use, he found her there, in company with her beautiful French governess.  He kissed his child, and saluted her young preceptress with formal courtesy.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I have got a letter for you; and, Rhoda,” he continued, addressing his pretty daughter, “bring this to your mother, and say, I request her to read it.”

He gave her the letter he himself had just received, and the girl tripped lightly away upon her mission.

Had he narrowly scrutinised the countenance of the fair Frenchwoman, as she glanced at the direction of that which he had just placed in her hand, he might have seen certain transient, but very unmistakable evidences of excitement and agitation.  She quickly concealed the letter, however, and with a sigh, the momentary flush which it had called to her cheek subsided, and she was tranquil as usual.

Mr. Marston remained for some minutes—­five, eight, or ten, we cannot say precisely—­pretty much where he had stood on first entering the chamber, doubtless awaiting the return of his messenger, or the appearance of his wife.  At length, however, he left the room himself to seek her; but, during his brief stay, his previous resolution had been removed.  By what influence we cannot say; but removed completely it unquestionably was, and a final determination that Sir Wynston Berkley should become his guest had fixedly taken its place.

As Marston walked along the passages which led from this room, he encountered Mrs. Marston and his daughter.

“Well,” said he, “you have read Wynston’s letter?”

“Yes,” she replied, returning it to him; “and what answer, Richard, do you purpose giving him?”

She was about to hazard a conjecture, but checked herself, remembering that even so faint an evidence of a disposition to advise might possibly be resented by her cold and imperious lord.