He had hardly said the words when the door opened to admit William the
footman, in his usual tremor of nervousness, carrying a salver and a
note.

"The man says, please sir, is there any answer, sir?"

"Well, that's odd!" said Mr. Boyce, his look brightening. "Here _is_
Lord Maxwell's answer, just as I was talking of it."

His wife turned sharply and watched him take it; her lips parted, a
strange expectancy in her whole attitude. He tore it open, read it, and
then threw it angrily under the grate.

"No answer. Shut the door." The lad retreated. Mr. Boyce sat down and
began carefully to put the fire together. His thin left hand shook upon
his knee.

There was a moment's pause of complete silence. Mrs. Boyce's face might
have been seen by a close observer to quiver and then stiffen as she
stood in the light of the window, a tall and queenly figure in her
sweeping black. But she said not a word, and presently left the room.

Marcella watched her father.

"Papa--_was_ that a note from Lord Maxwell?"

Mr. Boyce looked round with a start, as though surprised that any one
was still there. It struck Marcella that he looked yellow and
shrunken--years older than her mother. An impulse of tenderness, joined
with anger and a sudden sick depression--she was conscious of them all