who Lord
Uppercliff's daughters are--I must tell you that Lady Rachel is the
eldest. She is married to the Honorable Captain Millbay, of the Navy, now
away in his ship. A person of extraordinary strength of mind (I don't
mean the Captain; I mean Lady Rachel); I admire her intellect, but her
political and social opinions I must always view with regret. Her younger
sister, Lady Lena--not married, Gerard; remember that!--is simply the
most charming girl in England. If you don't fall in love with her, you
will be the only young man in the county who has resisted Lady Lena. Poor
Sir George--she refused him last week; you really _must_ have heard of
Sir George; our member of parliament; conservative of course; quite
broken-hearted about Lady Lena; gone away to America to shoot bears. You
seem to be restless. What are you fidgeting about? Ah, I know! You want
to smoke after breakfast. Well, I won't be in your way. Go out on the
terrace; your poor father always took his cigar on the terrace. They say
smoking leads to meditation; I leave you to meditate on Lady Lena. Don't
forget--luncheon at one o'clock, and the carriage at two."

She smiled, and kissed her hand, and fluttered out of the room. Charming;
perfectly charming. And yet I was ungrateful enough to wish myself back
in Germany again.

I lit my cigar, but not on the terrace. Leaving the house, I took the way
once more that led to Fordwitch Wood. What would Mrs. Roylake have said,
if she had discovered that I was going back to the mill? There was no
other alternative. The portfolio was a trust confided to me; the sooner I
returned it to the writer of the confession--the sooner I told him
plainly the conclusion at which I had arrived--the more at ease my mind
would be.

The sluggish river looked muddier than ever, the new cottage looked
uglier than ever, exposed to the searching ordeal of sunlight. I knocked
at the door on the ancient side of the building.

Cristel's father--shall I confess I had hoped that it might be Cristel
herself?--let me in. In by-gone days, I dimly remembered him as old and
small and withered. Advancing years had wasted him away, in the interval,
until his white miller's clothes hung about him in empty folds. His
fleshless face would have looked like the face of a mummy, but for the
restless brightness of his little watchful black eyes. He stared at me in
momentary perplexity, and, suddenly recovering himself, asked me to walk
in.

"Are you th