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And now, seven years later, she was “Madam S.,” writing in that same hand I had seen countless times on invitations. I continued to read:
    â€œI often think of you, for—although it may not be seemly to say it—the company of few gentlemen used to please me so much as yours, and the London soirées given by my dear mother, at which you were present, are among my most cherished recollections now. But there! Frankness was always my failing, as Mother used to remind me. She, dear kind lady, survived less than a year after my poor father died, but I suppose you know this.
    â€œI am quite well, and we live in great comfort here, although we receive but rarely and are content with our own company most of the time. Mr. S. is a gracious gentleman, but of quiet and retiring disposition, and throngs of people, parties, balls, &c., are retrograde to his temperament; thus it is a special joy to me that he has expressly asked me to invite you here to the castle for a fortnight—or, if I may give you his exact words: ‘For a fortnight at least, but howsoever long as it pleases Sir Robert to stay among such drab folk as he will think us.’ (You see, I told you he was gracious!)”
    I must have frowned while reading, for the words of Mr. S. were not so much gracious, I thought, as egregious, and as vulgar as his absurd seal. Still, I held these feelings in check, for I knew that my emotions towards this man were not a little coloured by jealousy. He, after all, had wooed and won Maude Randall, a young lady of discernment and fine sensibilities: could she have been capable of wedding an obsequious boor? I thought it not likely. And a castle! Such romantic grandeur! “. . . Invite you here to the castle . . .” she had written, but where was “here”? The letter’s cover, since it had not come by the post, offered no clue; therefore I read on:
    â€œIt was indeed, only yesterday, in the course of conversation, that I was recalling my old life in London, and mentioned your name. Mr. S., I thought, was, of a sudden, interested. ‘Robert Cargrave?’ he said. ‘There is a well-known physician of that name, but I do not imagine it is the same gentleman.’ I laughed and told him it
was
the same gentleman, and that I had known you before you had become so illustrious. ‘Did you know him well?’ Mr. S. then asked me, and you will think me silly, but I must tell you that for a moment I assumed him to be jealous! Such was not the case, however, as further conversation proved. I told him you had been a friend of my family’s and a frequent guest at our house. ‘This is a most happy coincidence,’ he said. ‘I have long desired to meet Sir Robert Cargrave, and your past friendship with him furnishes you with an excellent opportunity to invite him here for a holiday.’
    â€œAnd so, Sir Robert, I am complying with his request—and at the same time obeying the dictates of my own inclination—by most cordially inviting you to visit us for as long as you choose. I entreat you to come, for we see so few people here and it would be a great pleasure to talk with someone from the old days and to hear the latest London gossip. Suffer me, then, to receive a letter from you at once. Mr. S. does not trust the post, hence I have sent this by a servant of ours who was to be in London on special business; please relay your answer by way of him—”
    I rang for my man. “Is the messenger who delivered this letter waiting for a reply?” I asked.
    â€œHe is sitting in the vestibule, Sir Robert,” he said.
    â€œYou should have told me.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAt any rate, send him in I now. I wish to see him.”
    My man left, and it took me but a minute to dash off a quick note of acceptance. It was ready for the messenger when he was ushered into the room. I addressed him: “You are in the employ of