Out of the old man’s parable she extracted just one hint that she considered useful.  In the letter which she proceeded to write Rupert Ashley as soon as she was alone, a letter that would meet him on his arrival in New York, she gave a statement of such facts as had come to her knowledge, but abstained from comments of her own, and from suggestions.  She had intended to make both.  She had thought it at first her duty to take the initiative in pointing out the gulf of difficulties that had suddenly opened up between her lover and herself.  It occurred to her now that she might possibly discern the leading of the pillar of cloud from self-betrayal on his part.  She would note carefully his acts, his words, the expressions of his face.  She had little doubt of being able to read in them some indication of her duty.  This in itself was a relief.  It was like being able to learn a language instead of having to invent one.  Nevertheless, as she finished her letter she was impelled to add: 

“We have asked some three hundred people to the church for the 28th.  Many of them will not be in town, as the season is still so early; but I think it wisest to withdraw all invitations without consulting you further.  This will leave us free to do as we think best after you arrive.  We can then talk over everything from the beginning.”

With the hint thus conveyed she felt her letter to be discreetly worded.  By the time she had slipped down the driveway to the box at the gate and posted it with her own hands her father had returned.

She had ordered tea in the little oval sitting-room they used when quite alone, and told the maid to say she was not receiving if anybody called.  She knew her father would be tired, but she hoped that if they were undisturbed he would talk to her of his affairs.  There was so much in them that was mysterious to her.  Notwithstanding her partial recovery from the shock of the morning, she still felt herself transported to a world in which the needs were new to her, and the chain of cause and effect had a bewildering inconsequence.  For this reason it seemed to her quite in the order of things—­the curiously inverted order now established, in which one thing was as likely as another—­that her father should stretch himself in a comfortable arm-chair and say nothing at all till after he had finished his second cup of tea.  Even then he might not have spoken if her own patience had held out.

“So you didn’t go away, after all,” she felt it safe to observe.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Sha’n’t you have to go?”

There was an instant’s hesitation.

“Perhaps not.  In fact—­I may almost definitely say—­not.  I should like another cup of tea.”

“That makes three, papa.  Won’t it keep you awake?”

“Nothing will keep me awake to-night.”

The tone caused her to look at him more closely as she took the cup he handed back to her.  She noticed that his eyes glittered and that in either cheek, above the line of the beard, there was a hectic spot.  She adjusted the spirit-lamp, and, lifting the cover of the kettle, looked inside.