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Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession
of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was

supposed to be undergoing.
“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to

this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul,
and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of
introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember,
were quite nice.”

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one
of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.

“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged

that they had had sufficient silent communion.
“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know,

some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people
here.”

He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.

“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed
young lady.

“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs.

Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the
room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.

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