The hour for my departure was now drawing near.  I sent to Mr. Fairlie to say that I would wait on him to take leave if he liked, but that he must excuse my being rather in a hurry.  He sent a message back, written in pencil on a slip of paper:  “Kind love and best wishes, dear Gilmore.  Hurry of any kind is inexpressibly injurious to me.  Pray take care of yourself.  Good-bye.”

Just before I left I saw Miss Halcombe for a moment alone.

“Have you said all you wanted to Laura?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.  “She is very weak and nervous—­I am glad she has you to take care of her.”

Miss Halcombe’s sharp eyes studied my face attentively.

“You are altering your opinion about Laura,” she said.  “You are readier to make allowances for her than you were yesterday.”

No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of words with a woman.  I only answered—­

“Let me know what happens.  I will do nothing till I hear from you.”

She still looked hard in my face.  “I wish it was all over, and well over, Mr. Gilmore—­and so do you.”  With those words she left me.

Sir Percival most politely insisted on seeing me to the carriage door.

“If you are ever in my neighbourhood,” he said, “pray don’t forget that I am sincerely anxious to improve our acquaintance.  The tried and trusted old friend of this family will be always a welcome visitor in any house of mine.”

A really irresistible man—­courteous, considerate, delightfully free from pride—­a gentleman, every inch of him.  As I drove away to the station I felt as if I could cheerfully do anything to promote the interests of Sir Percival Glyde—­anything in the world, except drawing the marriage settlement of his wife.

III

A week passed, after my return to London, without the receipt of any communication from Miss Halcombe.

On the eighth day a letter in her handwriting was placed among the other letters on my table.

It announced that Sir Percival Glyde had been definitely accepted, and that the marriage was to take place, as he had originally desired, before the end of the year.  In all probability the ceremony would be performed during the last fortnight in December.  Miss Fairlie’s twenty-first birthday was late in March.  She would, therefore, by this arrangement, become Sir Percival’s wife about three months before she was of age.

I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to have been sorry, but I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless.  Some little disappointment, caused by the unsatisfactory shortness of Miss Halcombe’s letter, mingled itself with these feelings, and contributed its share towards upsetting my serenity for the day.  In six lines my correspondent announced the proposed marriage—­in three more, she told me that Sir Percival had left