The luncheon was attacked by the company with a certain silent ferocity, which the waiters noticed as remarkable, even in their large experience.  The men drank deeply, but with wonderfully little effect in raising their spirits; the women, with the exception of amiable Mrs. Drumblade, kept Isabel deliberately out of the conversation that went on among them.  General Drumblade, sitting next to her in one of the places of honor, discoursed to Isabel privately on “my brother-in-law Hardyman’s infernal temper.”  A young marquis, on her other side—­a mere lad, chosen to make the necessary speech in acknowledgment of his superior rank—­rose, in a state of nervous trepidation, to propose Isabel’s health as the chosen bride of their host.  Pale and trembling, conscious of having forgotten the words which he had learnt beforehand, this unhappy young nobleman began:  “Ladies and gentlemen, I haven’t an idea—­” He stopped, put his hand to his head, stared wildly, and sat down again; having contrived to state his own case with masterly brevity and perfect truth, in a speech of seven words.

While the dismay, in some cases, and the amusement in others, was still at its height, Hardyman’s valet made his appearance, and, approaching his master, said in a whisper, “Could I speak to you, sit, for a moment outside?”

“What the devil do you want?” Hardyman asked irritably.  “Is that a letter in your hand?  Give it to me.”

The valet was a Frenchman.  In other words, he had a sense of what was due to himself.  His master had forgotten this.  He gave up the letter with a certain dignity of manner, and left the tent.  Hardyman opened the letter.  He turned pale as he read it; crumpled it in his hand, and threw it down on the table.  “By G—­d! it’s a lie!” he exclaimed furiously.

The guests rose in confusion.  Mrs. Drumblade, finding the letter within her reach, coolly possessed herself of it; recognized her mother’s handwriting; and read these lines: 

“I have only now succeeded in persuading your father to let me write to you.  For God’s sake, break off your marriage at any sacrifice.  Your father has heard, on unanswerable authority, that Miss Isabel Miller left her situation in Lady Lydiard’s house on suspicion of theft.”

While his sister was reading this letter, Hardyman had made his way to Isabel’s chair.  “I must speak to you, directly,” he whispered.  “Come away with me!” He turned, as he took her arm, and looked at the table.  “Where is my letter?” he asked.  Mrs. Drumblade handed it to him, dexterously crumpled up again as she had found it.  “No bad news, dear Alfred, I hope?” she said, in her most affectionate manner.  Hardyman snatched the letter from her, without answering, and led Isabel out of the tent.

“Read that!” he said, when they were alone.  “And tell me at once whether it’s true or false.”

Isabel read the letter.  For a moment the shock of the discovery held her speechless.  She recovered herself, and returned the letter.