“Arthur,” said Angela, one morning, when eight days had passed since her father’s return from town, “we are too happy.  We should throw something into the lake.”

“I have not got a ring, except the one you gave me,” he answered; for his signet was on his finger.  “So, unless we sacrifice Aleck or the ravens, I don’t know what it is to be.”

“Don’t joke, Arthur.  I tell you we are too happy.”

Could Arthur have seen through an acre or so of undergrowth as Angela uttered these words, he would have perceived a very smart page-boy with the Bellamy crest on his buttons delivering a letter to Philip.  It is true that there was nothing particularly alarming about that, but its contents might have given a point to Angela’s forebodings.  It ran thus: 

“Rewtham House, Monday.

“My dear Mr. Caresfoot,

“With reference to our conversation last week about your daughter
and G., can you come over and have a quiet chat with me this
afternoon?

“Sincerely yours,
“Anne Bellamy.”

Philip read this note, and then re-read it, knowing in his heart that now was his opportunity to act up to his convictions, and put an end to the whole transaction in a few decisive words.  But a man who has for so many years given place to the devil of avarice, even though it be avarice with a legitimate object, cannot shake himself free from his clothes in a moment; even when, as in Philip’s case, honour and right, to say nothing of a still more powerful factor, superstition, speak so loudly in his ears.  Surely, he thought, there would be no harm in hearing what she had to say.  He could explain his reasons for having nothing to do with the matter so much better in person.  Such mental struggles have only one end.  Presently the smart page-boy bore back this note: 

“Dear Lady Bellamy,

“I will be with you at half-past three.

“P.C.”

It was with very curious sensations that Philip was that afternoon shown into a richly furnished boudoir in Rewtham House.  He had not been in that room since he had talked to Maria Lee, sitting on that very sofa now occupied by Lady Bellamy’s still beautiful form, and he could not but feel that it was a place of evil omen for him.

Lady Bellamy rose to greet him with her most fascinating smile.

“This is very kind,” she said, as she motioned him to a seat, which Philip afterwards discovered had been carefully arranged so as to put his features in the full light, whilst, sitting on the sofa, her own were concealed.  “Well, Mr. Caresfoot,” she began, after a little pause, “I suppose I had better come to the point at once.  First of all, I presume that, as you anticipated would be the case, there exists some sort of understanding between Mr. Heigham and your daughter.”

Philip nodded.

“Well, your cousin is as determined as ever about the matter.  Indeed, he is simply infatuated or bewitched, I really don’t know which.”