“Very well, I will wait,” said the young man, who seemed rather hurried and nervous.  “Will you tell her that I wish to see her on a matter of great importance.  She will know what it is.”

Well, it was not the business of this rosy-cheeked maid to check the vagaries of impetuous lovers; she merely said,

“Will you step up-stairs, sir; there’s a fire in the morning-room.”

She led the way, and when she had left him in the bright little chamber—­where breakfast-things for one were laid on the table—­she departed to find, perhaps to arouse, her mistress.  The young man went to the window and stared into the street.  He returned to the fire and stared into the red flames.  He took up a newspaper that was on the table and opened it, but could not fix his attention.  And no wonder; for he had just succeeded to a baronetcy and the extensive Petmansworth estates; and he was determined to win a bride as well—­even as he was on his way to his father’s funeral.

It was some considerable time before Miss Burgoyne came down, and when she did make her appearance she seemed none too well pleased by this unconscionable intrusion; at the same time she had paid some little attention to her face, and she wore a most charming tea-gown of pink and sage-green.

“Well?” she said, rather coldly.  “What now?  I thought you had gone over to Paris.”

“But don’t you know what has happened?” he said, rather breathlessly.

“What has happened?”

He took up the newspaper, opened it, and handed it to her in silence, showing her a particular paragraph.

“Oh!” she said, with startled eyes, and yet she read the lines slowly, to give time for consideration.  And then she recollected that she ought to express sympathy.  “I am so very sorry—­so sudden and unexpected; it must have been such a shock to you.  But,” she added, after a second—­“but why are you here?  You ought to have gone home at once.”

“I’m on my way home—­I only got the telegram yesterday afternoon—­I reached London this morning,” the young man said, disconnectedly; all his eager and wistful attention was concentrated on her face; what answer was about to appear there to his urgent prayer?  “Don’t you understand why I am here, dear Kate?” said he, and he advanced a little, but very timidly.

“Well, really,” said she, for she was bound to appear a trifle shocked, “when such a dreadful thing happens—­your father’s sudden death—­really I think that should be the first thing in your mind; I think you ought not to delay a moment in going home.”

“You think me heartless, but you don’t understand,” said he, eager to justify himself in her eyes.  “Of course I’m sorry.  But my father and I never got on very well; he was always trying to thwart me.”

“Yes, but for the sake of mere outward form and decency,” she ventured to say.