“Neither have I,” returned Matthew, briskly. “And as for my health, I'm as fit as ever I was. Oh, I know I can't live for ever, but I'm good for another ten years at least.”
“You've got to be careful and do what you 're told,” said the physician.
“Let's have another glass of port before we go up to Agatha,” said Matthew, reaching out for the decanter.
Thus father and son tried to throw dust into each other's eyes, so that each should regard the other as the happiest of men.
The servant entered, bearing a tray with the letters that had arrived by the evening post. Matthew glanced at the addresses.
“Will you excuse me?” he said courteously. And Sylvester, trained in a brusquer school of manners, felt a great respect for his father's old-world politeness to a guest. Matthew opened two envelopes and glanced cursorily at their contents. Over the third letter he paused, and his lips twitched as he read. Then without comment he handed it to Sylvester.
It was a long letter from Ella, written that morning. Amid many feminine explanations and ambiguities she announced the fact of the downfall of the Walden Art Colony and her marriage with Roderick in a fortnight's time.
“This upsets all my calculations,” said Sylvester, gravely. “I thought the affair was as good as broken off.”
“It is only natural,” said Matthew.
“Natural! How?”