He tasted it, and then he drank pretty well all of it; but he said, as he put his cup down, “I don’t know what they make this stuff of.  I wish I had a cup of good, honest American coffee.”

“Oh, there’s nothing like American food!” said his daughter, with so much conciliation that he looked up sharply.

But whatever he might have been going to say was at least postponed by the approach of a serving-maid, who brought a note to his daughter.  She blushed a little at sight of it, and then tore it open and read: 

“I am going away from Carlsbad, for a fault of my own which forbids me to look you in the face.  If you wish to know the worst of me, ask Mrs. March.  I have no heart to tell you.”

Agatha read these mystifying words of Burnamy’s several times over in a silent absorption with them which left her father to look after himself, and he had poured out a second cup of coffee with his own hand, and was reaching for the bread beside her before she came slowly back to a sense of his presence.

“Oh, excuse me, papa,” she said, and she gave him the butter.  “Here’s a very strange letter from Mr. Burnamy, which I think you’d better see.”  She held the note across the table to him, and watched his face as he read it.

After he had read it twice, he turned the sheet over, as people do with letters that puzzle them, in the vain hope of something explanatory on the back.  Then he looked up and asked:  “What do you suppose he’s been doing?”

“I don’t believe he’s been doing anything.  It’s something that Mr. Stoller’s been doing to him.”

“I shouldn’t infer that from his own words.  What makes you think the trouble is with Stoller?”

“He said—­he said yesterday—­something about being glad to be through with him, because he disliked him so much he was always afraid of wronging him.  And that proves that now Mr. Stoller has made him believe that he’s done wrong, and has worked upon him till he does believe it.”

“It proves nothing of the kind,” said the general, recurring to the note.  After reading it again, he looked keenly at her:  “Am I to understand that you have given him the right to suppose you would want to know the worst—­or the best of him?”

The girl’s eyes fell, and she pushed her knife against her plate.  She began:  “No—­”

“Then confound his impudence!” the general broke out.  “What business has he to write to you at all about this?”

“Because he couldn’t go away without it!” she returned; and she met her father’s eye courageously.  “He had a right to think we were his friends; and if he has done wrong, or is in disgrace any way, isn’t it manly of him to wish to tell us first himself?”

Her father could not say that it was not.  But he could and did say, very sceptically:  “Stuff!  Now, see here, Agatha:  what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see Mrs. March, and then—­”