“I wouldn’t think of it, only that Herbert’s the obvious person to entertain me,” George replied, though he was a little puzzled by the insistence, and Ethel abruptly began to talk of something else.

Darkness came, but there were gleams of cheerful light from roadside cottages, and George found the fresh moist air and the shadowy woods they skirted pleasantly familiar.  This was the quiet English countryside he loved, and a sense of deep and tranquil content possessed him.  He failed to notice that Ethel cleverly avoided answering some of his questions and talked rather more than usual about matters of small importance.  At length they reached the Brantholme gates, and Stephen looked down as George alighted.

“We’ll expect you over shortly; I’ll send for your baggage,” he said as he drove off.

George, to his keen disappointment, found only Mrs. Lansing waiting for him in the hall, though she received him very cordially,

“Herbert had to go up to London; he didn’t get your wire in time to put off the journey,” she explained.  “I’m sorry he can’t be back for a few days.”

“It doesn’t matter; he has to attend to his business,” George rejoined.  “But where’s Sylvia?”

“She hasn’t come back from Susan’s,” said Mrs. Lansing, quickly changing the subject and explaining why Herbert had re-let the Lodge.  After that, she asked George questions until she sent him off to prepare for dinner.

George was perplexed as well as disappointed.  Neither Ethel nor Muriel seemed inclined to speak about Sylvia—­it looked as if they had some reason for avoiding any reference to her; but he assured himself that this was imagination, and during dinner he confined his inquiries to other friends.  When it was over and Muriel led him into the drawing-room, his uneasiness grew more keen.

“Herbert thought you would like to know as soon as possible how things were going,” Muriel said, as she took a big envelope from a drawer and gave it to him.

“He told me this was a rough statement of your business affairs.”

“Thanks,” said George, thrusting it carelessly into his pocket.  “I must study it sometime.  But I’ve been looking forward all day to meeting Sylvia.  Wouldn’t Susan let her come?”

Mrs. Lansing hesitated, and then, leaning forward, laid her hand on his arm.

“I’ve kept it back a little, George; but you must be told.  I’m afraid it will be a shock—–­Sylvia is to marry Captain Bland in the next few weeks.”

George rose and turned rather gray in the face, as he leaned on the back of a chair.

“I suppose,” he said hoarsely, “there’s no doubt of this?”

“It’s all arranged.”  Mrs. Lansing made a compassionate gesture.  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, or how hateful it was to have to give you such news.”

“I can understand why Sylvia preferred to leave it to you,” he said slowly.  “How long has this matter been going on?”