RODERICK HUDSON
"He's not ill, to my knowledge," Rowland said. "What have you there?"
"A note—a most dreadful thing. He tells us we 're not to see him nor to think of him for a week. If I could only go to his room! But I 'm afraid, I'm afraid!"
"I imagine there 's no need of going to his room. What 's the occasion, may I ask, of his note?"
"He was to have gone with us on this drive to—what is the place?—to Cervara. You know it was arranged yesterday morning. In the evening he was to have dined with us. But he never came, and this morning arrives this awfulness. Oh dear, I 'm so nervous. Would you mind reading it?"
Rowland took the note and glanced at its half-dozen lines. "I mustn't go to Cervara," they ran; "I have something else to do. This will occupy me perhaps a week, so you won't see me. Don't talk about me too much and don't miss me. Learn not to miss me. I bless you both, but I know what I need and must insist on my conditions. R. H."
"Why, it means," Rowland explained, "that he has taken up a fresh piece of work and that it 's all-absorbing. That 's very good news." This explanation was not sincere, but he had not the courage not to offer it as a stop-gap. And he found he needed all his courage to support it, for Mary had left her place and approached him, formidably unsatisfied.
"He never works in the evening," said Mrs. Hudson. "Can't he come for five minutes? Why does he write such a cruel cold note to his poor mother
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