I enclose you herewith the revised draft of your marriage settlement. 
It is now shipshape.  Return it before the end of the week, and I
will have it engrossed for signature.  I go to Scotland next
Wednesday for a month; shall be back in good time for your wedding. 
My love to your mother when you see her. 
               Your-affectionate uncle,
                         Edmund Paramor.

Shelton smiled and took out the draft.

“This Indenture made the___day of 190_, between Richard Paramor
Shelton—­”

He put it down and sank back in his chair, the chair in which the foreign vagrant had been wont to sit on mornings when he came to preach philosophy.

He did not stay there long, but in sheer unhappiness got up, and, taking his candle, roamed about the room, fingering things, and gazing in the mirror at his face, which seemed to him repulsive in its wretchedness.  He went at last into the hall and opened the door, to go downstairs again into the street; but the sudden certainty that, in street or house, in town or country, he would have to take his trouble with him, made him shut it to.  He felt in the letterbox, drew forth a letter, and with this he went back to the sitting-room.

It was from Antonia.  And such was his excitement that he was forced to take three turns between the window and the wall before he could read; then, with a heart beating so that he could hardly hold the paper, he began: 

I was wrong to ask you to go away.  I see now that it was breaking my promise, and I did n’t mean to do that.  I don’t know why things have come to be so different.  You never think as I do about anything.

I had better tell you that that letter of Monsieur Ferrand’s to mother was impudent.  Of course you did n’t know what was in it; but when Professor Brayne was asking you about him at breakfast, I felt that you believed that he was right and we were wrong, and I can’t understand it.  And then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt her horse, it was all as if you were on her side.  How can you feel like that?

I must say this, because I don’t think I ought to have asked you to go away, and I want you to believe that I will keep my promise, or I should feel that you and everybody else had a right to condemn me.  I was awake all last night, and have a bad headache this morning.  I can’t write any more.  Antonia.

His first sensation was a sort of stupefaction of relief that had in it an element of anger.  He was reprieved!  She would not break her promise; she considered herself bound!  In the midst of the exaltation of this thought he smiled, and that smile was strange.

He read it through again, and, like a judge, began to weigh what she had written, her thoughts when she was writing, the facts which had led up to this.

The vagrant’s farewell document had done the business.  True to his fatal gift of divesting things of clothing, Ferrand had not vanished without showing up his patron in his proper colours; even to Shelton those colours were made plain.  Antonia had felt her lover was a traitor.  Sounding his heart even in his stress of indecision, Shelton knew that this was true.