of herself."

"You've seen her at Raynham, Rip?"

"Yes, once. They asked me down. And your father's so fond of her--I'm
sure he thinks no woman like her, and he's right. She is so lovely, and
so good."

Richard was too full of blame of himself to blame his father: too British
to expose his emotions. Ripton divined how deep and changed they were by
his manner. He had cast aside the hero, and however Ripton had obeyed
him and looked up to him in the heroic time, he loved him tenfold now.
He told his friend how much Lucy's mere womanly sweetness and excellence
had done for him, and Richard contrasted his own profitless extravagance
with the patient beauty of his dear home angel. He was not one to take
her on the easy terms that offered. There was that to do which made his
cheek burn as he thought of it, but he was going to do it, even though it
lost her to him. Just to see her and kneel to her was joy sufficient to
sustain him, and warm his blood in the prospect. They marked the white
cliffs growing over the water. Nearer, the sun made them lustrous.
Houses and people seemed to welcome the wild youth to common sense,
simplicity, and home.

They were in town by mid-day. Richard had a momentary idea of not
driving to his hotel for letters. After a short debate he determined to
go there. The porter said he had two letters for Mr. Richard Feverel--
one had been waiting some time. He went to the box and fetched them.
The first Richard opened was from Lucy, and as he read it, Ripton
observed the colour deepen on his face, while a quivering smile played
about his mouth. He opened the other indifferently. It began without