It was the morning before “the Ball,” and Mrs. Filmer was busy about the packing of some valuable bric-a-brac, which was to be taken with them to the city. She went into Harry’s room, to see if the pieces adorning it had been attended to properly; and, glancing carefully around, her eyes fell upon a book of expensive illustrations. She determined to lock it away, and lifted it for that purpose. A letter fell from its pages, and she read it. As she did so, her eyes flashed, and her face grew passionately sombre.
“The idea!” she muttered. “The very idea of such a thing!”
She did not replace the letter, but taking it in her hand, went in search of Harry; and as she could not find him, she proceeded to Mr. Filmer’s study. He looked up with fidgety annoyance, and she said crossly:
“Henry, I am sorry to disturb you; but I suppose your son is of more importance than your book.”
“Is there anything amiss with Harry?”
“Harry is on the point of making a dreadful mésalliance.”
“With whom?”
“That Van Hoosen girl.”
“How do you know?”
“I found a letter in his room—a perfectly dreadful letter.”