As Dick was getting out of bed at half-past seven a troubled little note was brought to him written hurriedly and almost incoherent.
"Dick, I can't ride with you this morning. I am too tired … and I don't think we should meet again. You must forget last night. I shall be very proud always to remember it, but I won't ruin you, Dick. You mustn't think I shall suffer so very much …" Dick read it all through with a smile of tenderness upon his face. He wrote a line in reply. "I will come and see you at eleven, Stella. Meanwhile sleep, my dear," and sent it across to the cottage. Then he rolled back into bed again and took his own advice. It was late when he came down into the dining-room and he took his breakfast alone.
"Where's my father?" he asked of Hubbard the butler.
"Mr. Hazlewood breakfasted half an hour ago, sir. He's at work now."
"Capital," said Dick. "Give me some sausages. Hubbard, what would you say if I told you that I was going to be married?"
Hubbard placed a plate in front of him.
"I should keep my head, sir," he answered in his gentle voice. "Will you take tea?"
"Thank you."
Dick looked out of the window. It was a morning of clear skies and sunlight, a very proper morning for this the first of all the remarkable days which one after the other were going especially to belong to him. He was of the gods now. The world was his property, or rather he held it in trust for Stella. It was behaving well; Dick Hazlewood was contented. He ate a large breakfast and strolling into the library lit his pipe. There was his father bending over his papers at his writing-table before the window, busy as a bee no doubt at some new enthusiasm which was destined to infuriate his neighbours. Let him go on! Dick smiled benignly at the old man's back. Then he frowned. It was curious that his father had not wished him a good-morning, curious and unusual.
"I hope, sir, that you slept well," he said.