Hatfield. I warned you about her in the beginning, when you met her at
my sister Rose's, but, as usual, you would take your own course----"

Michael began to speak, but checked himself--and Henry Fordyce went on.

"I have had a letter from Rose this morning--as you of course know,
Violet is staying for this Whitsuntide with them, having dragged her
wretched husband, dying of consumption as he is, to this merry party.
Well--Rose says poor Maurice is in a terrible state, caught a fresh cold
on Saturday--and she adds, 'So I suppose we shall soon see Violet
installed at Arranstoun as mistress.'"

"I know--I heard from Violet herself this morning," and Michael put his
head down dejectedly.

"Ebbsworth is only thirty-five miles from here," Mr. Fordyce announced
with meaning. "Violet can pop in on you at any moment, and she'll clinch
the matter and bind you with her cobwebs before you can escape."

"Oh, Lord!"

"You know you are dead sick of her, Michael--and you know that I am not
the sort of man who would ever speak of a woman thus without grave
reason; but she does not care for you any more than the half a dozen
others who occupied your proud position before your day--it is only for
money and the glory of having you tied to her apron strings. It was not
any good hammering on while the passion was upon you; but I have
watched you, and have seen that it is waning, so now's my time. With
this danger in front of you, you have got to pull yourself together, old
boy, and cut and run."