Arnold, for once, displayed an unexpected readiness of resource.

“If you want to write,” he said, “you owe Lady Lundie a letter.  It’s three days since you heard from her—­and you haven’t answered her yet.”

Sir Patrick paused, and looked up quickly from his writing-desk.

“Lady Lundie?” he muttered, inquiringly.

“Yes,” said Blanche.  “It’s quite true; I owe her a letter.  And of course I ought to tell her we have come back to England.  She will be finely provoked when she hears why!”

The prospect of provoking Lady Lundie seemed to rouse Blanche s dormant energies.  She took a sheet of her uncle’s note-paper, and began writing her answer then and there.

Sir Patrick completed his communication to the lawyer—­after a look at Blanche, which expressed any thing rather than approval of her present employment.  Having placed his completed note in the postbag, he silently signed to Arnold to follow him into the garden.  They went out together, leaving Blanche absorbed over her letter to her step-mother.

“Is my wife doing any thing wrong?” asked Arnold, who had noticed the look which Sir Patrick had cast on Blanche.

“Your wife is making mischief as fast as her fingers can spread it.”

Arnold stared.  “She must answer Lady Lundie’s letter,” he said.

“Unquestionably.”

“And she must tell Lady Lundie we have come back.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“Then what is the objection to her writing?”

Sir Patrick took a pinch of snuff—­and pointed with his ivory cane to the bees humming busily about the flower-beds in the sunshine of the autumn morning.

“I’ll show you the objection,” he said.  “Suppose Blanche told one of those inveterately intrusive insects that the honey in the flowers happens, through an unexpected accident, to have come to an end—­do you think he would take the statement for granted?  No.  He would plunge head-foremost into the nearest flower, and investigate it for himself.”

“Well?” said Arnold.

“Well—­there is Blanche in the breakfast-room telling Lady Lundie that the bridal tour happens, through an unexpected accident, to have come to an end.  Do you think Lady Lundie is the sort of person to take the statement for granted?  Nothing of the sort!  Lady Lundie, like the bee, will insist on investigating for herself.  How it will end, if she discovers the truth—­and what new complications she may not introduce into a matter which, Heaven knows, is complicated enough already—­I leave you to imagine. My poor powers of prevision are not equal to it.”

Before Arnold could answer, Blanche joined them from the breakfast-room.

“I’ve done it,” she said.  “It was an awkward letter to write—­and it’s a comfort to have it over.”

“You have done it, my dear,” remarked Sir Patrick, quietly.  “And it may be a comfort.  But it’s not over.”