“I shall be right again to-morrow, my dear.  I am a little upset to-day.”

“Not by me?”

“No, no.”

“By something you have heard at Mr. Clare’s?”

“Yes—­nothing you need alarm yourself about; nothing that won’t wear off by to-morrow.  Let me go now, my dear; I have a letter to write; and I want to speak to your mother.”

He left her and went on to the house.  Magdalen lingered a little on the lawn, to feel all the happiness of her new sensations—­then turned away toward the shrubbery to enjoy the higher luxury of communicating them.  The dog followed her.  She whistled, and clapped her hands.  “Find him!” she said, with beaming eyes.  “Find Frank!” Snap scampered into the shrubbery, with a bloodthirsty snarl at starting.  Perhaps he had mistaken his young mistress and considered himself her emissary in search of a rat?

Meanwhile, Mr. Vanstone entered the house.  He met his wife slowly descending the stairs, and advanced to give her his arm.  “How has it ended?” she asked, anxiously, as he led her to the sofa.

“Happily—­as we hoped it would,” answered her husband.  “My old friend has justified my opinion of him.”

“Thank God!” said Mrs. Vanstone, fervently.  “Did you feel it, love?” she asked, as her husband arranged the sofa pillows—­“did you feel it as painfully as I feared you would?”

“I had a duty to do, my dear—­and I did it.”

After replying in those terms, he hesitated.  Apparently, he had something more to say—­something, perhaps, on the subject of that passing uneasiness of mind which had been produced by his interview with Mr. Clare, and which Magdalen’s questions had obliged him to acknowledge.  A look at his wife decided his doubts in the negative.  He only asked if she felt comfortable; and then turned away to leave the room.

“Must you go?” she asked.

“I have a letter to write, my dear.”

“Anything about Frank?”

“No:  to-morrow will do for that.  A letter to Mr. Pendril.  I want him here immediately.”

“Business, I suppose?”

“Yes, my dear—­business.”

He went out, and shut himself into the little front room, close to the hall door, which was called his study.  By nature and habit the most procrastinating of letter-writers, he now inconsistently opened his desk and took up the pen without a moment’s delay.  His letter was long enough to occupy three pages of note-paper; it was written with a readiness of expression and a rapidity of hand which seldom characterized his proceedings when engaged over his ordinary correspondence.  He wrote the address as follows:  “Immediate—­William Pendril, Esq., Serle Street, Lincoln’s Inn, London”—­then pushed the letter away from him, and sat at the table, drawing lines on the blotting-paper with his pen, lost in thought.  “No,” he said to himself; “I can do nothing more till Pendril comes.”  He rose; his face brightened as he put the stamp on the envelope.  The writing of the letter had sensibly relieved him, and his whole bearing showed it as he left the room.