She unhitched the chain and let him in. "I knew it would be so, Dick," said she, quietly.
Richard was pale and haggard, and shone from head to foot with the rain, which poured off his water-proof coat in streams.
"You were right, mother," said he, as he kissed her cheek. "No reproaches. Let me have food and fire."
She brought him socks and slippers, made a cheerful blaze, and set cold meat and spirits upon the table.
He ate voraciously, and drank his hot brandy-and-water, while Mrs. Yorke worked busily at an antimacassar, in silence.
"You are not disappointed at seeing me, that's one thing, mother?"
"No. Read that." She pushed across to him the letter she had been writing to him that evening, and pointed to this sentence: "You have my good wishes, but not my hopes—I have no hopes. I shall be surprised if I do not have you back again before the week is out."
"Just so," said the young man, cynically. "You have the pleasure, then, which your dear friend Joanna there never enjoyed, of seeing your own prophecy accomplished; and I, for my part, have three hundred pounds to solace myself with for what has certainly been a disappointment."
"I am glad you are so philosophic, Dick. It is the best thing we can be, if we can't be religious. How did it all happen?"
"I scarcely know the plot (for there was a plot), but only the dénouement. I had offended a certain Mr. Fane, toady-in-ordinary to Frederick Chandos."