“I mean it,” said Mr. Carteret.
That afternoon at tea a telegram arrived from which Barclay gathered that his mother was in Paris, afflicted with a maid with chicken-pox, and that she was frantic with the sanitary regulations of the French government.
“Couldn’t I go?” said Mr. Carteret.
“No,” said Barclay, “there are twenty-eight words in this dispatch. It is a hurry-call for me.” He took the night train.
Three weeks later he came back. He arrived late in the afternoon and found his host before the fire looking thoughtfully at a note which he held in his hand. “I’m glad to see you back,” said Mr. Carteret. “Have you proposed to Mary Granvil?”
“I?” said Barclay. “No. How could I in Paris? Why?” There was an anxiety in his manner which suggested that he was not as resigned as he said he was.
“If you haven’t been bungling,” said Mr. Carteret, “blessed if I know what has happened.”
“Is it announced?” asked Barclay. “Is it Sikes?”
“Read Lady Withers’s note,” said Mr. Carteret.