“Sir Patrick!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you consider it your duty to open that letter?”

“My dear lady! what can you possibly be thinking of?”

The most virtuous of living women had her answer ready on the spot.

“I am thinking,” said Lady Lundie, “of Arnold’s moral welfare.”

Sir Patrick smiled.  On the long list of those respectable disguises under which we assert our own importance, or gratify our own love of meddling in our neighbor’s affairs, a moral regard for the welfare of others figures in the foremost place, and stands deservedly as number one.

“We shall probably hear from Arnold in a day or two,” said Sir Patrick, locking the letter up in the drawer.  “He shall have it as soon as I know where to send it to him.”

The next morning brought news of the bride and bridegroom.

They reported themselves to be too supremely happy to care where they lived, so long as they lived together.  Every question but the question of Love was left in the competent hands of their courier.  This sensible and trust-worthy man had decided that Paris was not to be thought of as a place of residence by any sane human being in the month of September.  He had arranged that they were to leave for Baden—­on their way to Switzerland—­on the tenth.  Letters were accordingly to be addressed to that place, until further notice.  If the courier liked Baden, they would probably stay there for some time.  If the courier took a fancy for the mountains, they would in that case go on to Switzerland.  In the mean while nothing mattered to Arnold but Blanche—­and nothing mattered to Blanche but Arnold.

Sir Patrick re-directed Anne Silvester’s letter to Arnold, at the Poste Restante, Baden.  A second letter, which had arrived that morning (addressed to Arnold in a legal handwriting, and bearing the post-mark of Edinburgh), was forwarded in the same way, and at the same time.

Two days later Ham Farm was deserted by the guests.  Lady Lundie had gone back to Windygates.  The rest had separated in their different directions.  Sir Patrick, who also contemplated returning to Scotland, remained behind for a week—­a solitary prisoner in his own country house.  Accumulated arrears of business, with which it was impossible for his steward to deal single-handed, obliged him to remain at his estates in Kent for that time.  To a man without a taste for partridge-shooting the ordeal was a trying one.  Sir Patrick got through the day with the help of his business and his books.  In the evening the rector of a neighboring parish drove over to dinner, and engaged his host at the noble but obsolete game of Piquet.  They arranged to meet at each other’s houses on alternate days.  The rector was an admirable player; and Sir Patrick, though a born Presbyterian, blessed the Church of England from the bottom of his heart.

Three more days passed.  Business at Ham Farm began to draw to an end.  The time for Sir Patrick’s journey to Scotland came nearer.  The two partners at Piquet agreed to meet for a final game, on the next night, at the rector’s house.  But (let us take comfort in remembering it) our superiors in Church and State are as completely at the mercy of circumstances as the humblest and the poorest of us.  That last game of Piquet between the baronet and the parson was never to be played.