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“Letters?”

“Naturally, there would be letters, sir. It is an inseparable feature of these cases.”

“Do you mean that I have got to write to her? But I shouldn’t know what to say. I’ve never seen her.”

“That will be quite all right, sir, if you place yourself in my hands. I will come to your room after everybody’s gone to bed, and help you write those letters. You have some note-paper with your own address on it? Then it will all be perfectly simple.”

When, some hours later, he read over the ten or twelve exceedingly passionate epistles which, with the butler’s assistance, he had succeeded in writing to Miss Maud Chilvers, Roland came to the conclusion that there must have been a time when Mr. Teal was a good deal less respectable than he appeared to be at present. Byronic was the only adjective applicable to his collaborator’s style of amatory composition. In every letter there were passages against which Roland had felt compelled to make a modest protest.

“‘A thousand kisses on your lovely rosebud of a mouth.’ Don’t you think that is a little too warmly colored? And ‘I am languishing for the pressure of your ivory arms about my neck and the sweep of your silken hair against my cheek!’ What I mean is–well, what about it, you know?”

“The phrases,” said Mr. Teal, not without a touch of displeasure, “to which you take exception, are taken bodily from correspondence (which I happened to have the advantage of perusing) addressed by the late Lord Evenwood to Animalcula, Queen of the High Wire at Astley’s Circus. His lordship, I may add, was considered an authority in these matters.”

Roland criticized no more. He handed over the letters, which, at Mr. Teal’s direction, he had headed with various dates covering roughly a period of about two months antecedent to his arrival at the Towers.

“That,” Mr. Teal explained, “will make your conduct definitely unpardonable. With this woman’s kisses hot upon your lips,”–Mr. Teal was still slightly aglow with the fire of inspiration–“you have the effrontery to come here and offer yourself to her ladyship.”

With Roland’s timid suggestion that it was perhaps a mistake to overdo the atmosphere, the butler found himself unable to agree.

“You can’t make yourself out too bad. If you don’t pitch it hot and strong, her ladyship might quite likely forgive you. Then where would you be?”

Miss Maud Chilvers, of Aldershot, burst into Roland’s life like one of the shells of her native heath two days later at about five in the afternoon.

It was an entrance of which any stage-manager might have been proud of having arranged. The lighting, the grouping, the lead-up–all were perfect. The family had just finished tea in the long drawing-room. Lady Kimbuck was crocheting, Lord Evenwood dozing, Lady Eva reading, and Roland thinking. A peaceful scene.

A soft, rippling murmur, scarcely to be reckoned a snore, had just proceeded from Lord Evenwood’s parted lips, when the door opened, and Teal announced, “Miss Chilvers.”

Roland stiffened in his chair. Now that the ghastly moment had come, he felt too petrified with fear even to act the little part in which he had been diligently rehearsed by the obliging Mr. Teal. He simply sat and did nothing.

It was speedily made clear to him that Miss Chilvers would do all the actual doing that was necessary. The butler had drawn no false picture of her personal appearance. Dyed yellow hair done all frizzy was but one fact of her many-sided impossibilities. In the serene surroundings of the long drawing-room, she looked more unspeakably “not much good” than Roland had ever imagined her. With such a leading lady, his drama could not fail of success. He should have been pleased; he was merely appalled. The thing might have a happy ending, but while it lasted it was going to be terrible.

She had a flatteringly attentive reception. Nobody failed to notice her. Lord Evenwood woke with a start, and stared at her as if she had been some ghost from his trouble of ’85. Lady Eva’s face expressed sheer amazement. Lady Kimbuck, laying down her crochet-work, took one look at the apparition, and instantly decided that one of her numerous erring relatives had been at it again. Of all the persons in the room, she was possibly the only one completely cheerful. She was used to these situations and enjoyed them. Her mind, roaming into the past, recalled the night when her cousin Warminster had been pinked by a stiletto in his own drawing-room by a lady from South America. Happy days, happy days.