Sir Henry strode forward.
Mutes were on each side of the front step. A servant threw open the door of the breakfast room, and Delmé mechanically entered it. It was filled with strangers; on some of these the spruce undertaker was fitting silk scarfs; while others were busy at the breakfast table.
An ominous whisper ran through the apartment.
"Sir Henry Delmé?" said the rosy-cheeked clergyman, enquiringly, as he laid down his egg spoon, and turned towards him.
"I trust you received my letter. Women are so utterly helpless in these matters; and poor Mrs. Vernon was quite overpowered."
Delmé turned away to master his emotion.
At this moment, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and Mrs. Vernon's maid, with her eyes red from weeping, beckoned him up stairs.
He mechanically obeyed her--reeled into an inner drawing room--and stood in the presence of the bereaved mother.
Mrs. Vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness. Now she sat with her feet on a footstool--her head almost touching her lap--her silver hair all loose and dishevelled. It seemed to Delmé as if age had suddenly come upon her.
She rose as he entered, and with wild hysterical sobs, threw herself into his arms.