He laid down the blurred note, and turned to the enclosure.  Then he read his mother’s letter.  And he had imagined, in his folly, that his mother’s refinement would at least make use of some other weapon than the money!  Why, it was all money!—­a blunderbuss of the crudest kind, held at Diana’s head in the crudest way.  This is how the saints behave—­the people of delicacy—­when it comes to a pinch!  He saw his mother stripped of all her pretensions, her spiritual airs, and for the first time in his life—­his life of unwilling subordination—­he dared to despise her.

But neither contempt nor indignation helped him much.  How was he to answer Diana?  He paced up and down for an hour considering it, then sat down and wrote.

His letter ran as follows: 

“DEAREST DIANA,—­I asked you to be my wife, and I stand by my word.  I did not like to say too much about my mother’s state of mind when we were together yesterday, but I am afraid it is very true that she will withdraw her present allowance to me, and deprive me of the money which my father left.  Most unjustly, as it has always seemed to me, she has complete control over it.  Never mind.  I must see what can be done.  No doubt my political career will be, for a time, much affected.  We must hope it will only be for a time.

“Ferrier and Sir James believe that my mother cannot maintain her present attitude.  But I do not, alack! share their belief.  I realize, as no one can who does not live in the same house with her, the strength and obstinacy of her will.  She will, I suppose, leave my father’s half-million to some of the charitable societies in which she believes, and we must try and behave as though it had never existed.  I don’t regret it for myself.  But, of course, there are many public causes one would have liked to help.

“If I can, I will come down to Beechcote on Saturday again.  Meanwhile, do let me urge you to take care of your health, and not to dwell too much on a past that nothing can alter.  I understand, of course, how it must affect you; but I am sure it will be best—­best, indeed, for us both—­that you should now put it as much as possible out of your mind.  It may not be possible to hide the sad truth.  I fear it will not be.  But I am sure that the less said—­or even thought—­about it, the better.  You won’t think me unkind, will you?

     “You will see a report of my speech in the debate to-morrow. 
     It certainly made an impression, and I must manage, if I can,
     to stick to Parliament.  But we will consult when we meet.

     “Your most loving OLIVER.”

As he wrote it Marsham had been uncomfortably conscious of another self beside him—­mocking, or critical.