Up till now
Lady Lucy's yoke had been tolerable; to-day it galled beyond endurance.
Moreover, there was something peculiarly irritating at the moment in
Ferrier's intervention. There had been increased Parliamentary friction
of late between the two men, in spite of the intimacy of their personal
relations. To be forced to owe fortune, career, and the permission to
marry as he pleased to Ferrier's influence with his mother was, at this
juncture, a bitter pill for Oliver Marsham.
Ferrier understood him perfectly, and he had never displayed more
kindness or more tact than in the conversation which passed between
them. Marsham finally agreed that Diana must be frankly informed of his
mother's state of mind, and that a waiting policy offered the only hope.
On this they were retiring to the front drawing-room when Lady Lucy
opened the communicating door.
"A letter for you, Oliver."
He took it, and turned it over. The handwriting was unknown to him.
"Who brought this?" he asked of the butler standing behind his mother.
"A servant, sir, from Beechcote Manor, He was told to wait for an
answer."
"I will send one. Come when I ring.
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