“She did not say a word against me, Rip?”

“Against you, Richard!  The moment she knew she was to be a mother, she thought of nothing but her duty to the child.  She’s one who can’t think of herself.”

“You’ve seen her at Raynham, Rip?”

“Yes, once.  They asked me down.  And your father’s so fond of her—­I’m sure he thinks no woman like her, and he’s right.  She is so lovely, and so good.”

Richard was too full of blame of himself to blame his father:  too British to expose his emotions.  Ripton divined how deep and changed they were by his manner.  He had cast aside the hero, and however Ripton had obeyed him and looked up to him in the heroic time, he loved him tenfold now.  He told his friend how much Lucy’s mere womanly sweetness and excellence had done for him, and Richard contrasted his own profitless extravagance with the patient beauty of his dear home angel.  He was not one to take her on the easy terms that offered.  There was that to do which made his cheek burn as he thought of it, but he was going to do it, even though it lost her to him.  Just to see her and kneel to her was joy sufficient to sustain him, and warm his blood in the prospect.  They marked the white cliffs growing over the water.  Nearer, the sun made them lustrous.  Houses and people seemed to welcome the wild youth to common sense, simplicity, and home.

They were in town by mid-day.  Richard had a momentary idea of not driving to his hotel for letters.  After a short debate he determined to go there.  The porter said he had two letters for Mr. Richard Feverel—­one had been waiting some time.  He went to the box and fetched them.  The first Richard opened was from Lucy, and as he read it, Ripton observed the colour deepen on his face, while a quivering smile played about his mouth.  He opened the other indifferently.  It began without any form of address.  Richard’s forehead darkened at the signature.  This letter was in a sloping feminine hand, and flourished with light strokes all over, like a field of the bearded barley.  Thus it ran: 

“I know you are in a rage with me because I would not consent to ruin you, you foolish fellow.  What do you call it?  Going to that unpleasant place together.  Thank you, my milliner is not ready yet, and I want to make a good appearance when I do go.  I suppose I shall have to some day.  Your health, Sir Richard.  Now let me speak to you seriously.  Go home to your wife at once.  But I know the sort of fellow you are, and I must be plain with you.  Did I ever say I loved you?  You may hate me as much as you please, but I will save you from being a fool.