Westenra has confided to me that her doom is spoken⁠—disease of the heart⁠—though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl’s mind. I am almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at first⁠—I know why, old fellow⁠—she finally consented. It will be a painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for

her

sake, and I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at Hillingham tomorrow, two o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in