That was on Monday night.  On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it with a dozen others upon her breakfast table.  She was a dainty, high-bred little lady, with

    “Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor,
    Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender,
        Lips like fragrant posy,”

and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the happiness of others.

But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula.  She was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as his cousin’s heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had seriously altered his prospects.  Women easily see through the best laid plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little widow.  John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter.

“Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want to consult you, dear, about a visitor.”

Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, “Who is it, Fan?”

“It is John Selden.  If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have inherited the Clare estate.  I think he is coming now in order to see if it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin’s widow.”

“What selfishness!  Write and tell him that you are just leaving for the Suez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place.”

“No; I have a better plan than that—­Clementine, do stop reading a few minutes.  I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, and Mr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there.  No one knows us in the place, and I will take none of the servants with me.”

“Well?”

“Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poor friend and companion.”

“Good! very good!  ’The Fair Deceivers’—­an excellent comedy.  How I shall snub you, Fan!  And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressing you.  But has not Mr. Selden seen you?”

“No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe.  I came back a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me until now.  I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?”

“Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan.  They never decide on anything until their particular friend approves.  I dare say they wrote the letter together.  What is the gentleman’s name?”

The widow examined the note. “‘My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan.’  Do you know him, Clementine?”

“No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan.  I don’t fall in love with the name—­do you?  But pray accept the offer for both gentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear.”  Then Clementine returned to the consideration of the lace in coquilles for her new evening dress.