“Ah, there is the telegram!”

And Doris, running to the window, waved to a diminutive telegraph boy, who, being new to his job, had come up to the front entrance of the Lodge instead of the back, and was now—­recognising his misdeed—­retreating in alarm from the mere aspect of “the great fortified post.”  He saw the lady at the window, however, and checked his course.

“For me!” cried Doris, triumphantly—­and she tore it open.

    Can’t arrive till between eight and nine.  Think I have got all we
    want.  Please take a room for me at hotel.—­ALICE WIGRAM.

Doris turned back into the room, and handed the telegram to Lady Dunstable, who read it slowly.

“Did you say this was the Alice Wigram I knew?”

“Her father had one of your livings,” repeated Doris.  “He died last year.”

“I know.  I quarrelled with him.  I cannot conceive why Alice Wigram should do me a good turn!” Lady Dunstable threw back her head, her challenging look fixed upon her visitor.  Doris was certain she had it in her mind to add—­“or you either!”—­but refrained.

“Lord Dunstable was always a friend to her father,” said Doris, with the same slight emphasis on the “Lord” as before.  “And she felt for the estate—­the poor people—­the tenants.”

Rachel Dunstable shook her head impatiently.

“I daresay.  But I got into a scrape with the Wigrams.  I expect that you would think, Mrs. Meadows—­perhaps most people would think, as of course her father did—­that I once treated Miss Wigram unkindly!”

“Oh, what does it matter?” cried Doris, hastily,—­“what does it matter?  She wants to help—­she’s sorry for you.  You should see that woman!  It would be too awful if your son was tied to her for life!”

She sat up straight, all her soul in her eyes and in her pleasant face.

There was a pause.  Then Lady Dunstable, whose expression had changed, came a little nearer to her.

“And you—­I wonder why you took all this trouble?”

Doris said nothing.  She fell back slowly in her chair, looking at the tall woman standing over her.  Tears came into her eyes—­brimmed—­overflowed—­in silence.  Her lips smiled.  Rachel Dunstable bent over her in bewilderment.

“To have a son,” murmured Doris under her breath, “and then to see him ruined like this!  No love for him!—­no children—­no grandchildren for oneself, when one is old—­”

Her voice died away.

“’To have a son’?” repeated Lady Dunstable, wondering—­“but you have none!”

Doris said nothing.  Only she put up her hand feebly, and wiped away the tears—­still smiling.  After which she shut her eyes.

Lady Dunstable gasped.  Then the long, sallow face flushed deeply.  She walked over to a sofa on the other side of the room, arranged the pillows on it, and came back to Doris.

“Will you, please, let me put you on that sofa?  You oughtn’t to have had this long journey.  Of course you will stay here—­and Miss Wigram too.  It seems—­I shall owe you a great deal—­and I could not have expected you—­to think about me—­at all.  I can do rude things.  But I can also—­be sorry for my sins!”