Free The Last and the First by Ivy Compton-Burnett

it.”
    â€œI was impressed by it,” said Angus. “I have a great respect for failure. For letting things pass to other people and having nothing oneself. It is a thing we can speak of openly. It is so much less furtive than success.”
    â€œPeople never speak of that,” said Roberta. “And they pretend it is not in their thoughts. There is something shamefaced about it.”
    â€œThere are other things,” said Eliza. “And other things too about failure. I fear that Hermia will find it.”
    â€œIt is a serious threat,” said Sir Robert. “But we took the risk with open eyes. It is of no use to regret it. It is a thing we must sometimes do. But do all you can, Hermia. Try to see Miss Murdoch’s point of view. Don’t be too sure of your own. The future is largely in your hands.”
    â€œIt is almost wholly out of them. And it is Miss Murdoch’s point of view that is bringing disaster, not mine. It is no good to say any more. You would not be any wiser. There are other matters under the sun. It seems that the post is here.”
    â€œWith a letter for each of us,” said Angus, handing them round. “It is not often so fair.”
    â€œMine is a bill,” said Sir Robert. “And it is not at all fair. I have paid it.”
    â€œMine is also a bill,” said Roberta. “And it is quite fair. I have omitted to pay it.”
    â€œMine is just from a friend,” said Madeline, closingher lips and her letter after the words in a way that had become accepted.
    â€œWhom is yours from, Hermia?” said Eliza, speaking as one who had a right to ask. “You seem quite lost in it.”
    â€œSo perhaps she can’t emerge from it,” said Roberta.
    â€œShe must know whom it is from. She can read the signature.”
    â€œThat seems the end of our duty to a letter,” said Angus.
    â€œIt is not of her duty to me. Any letters that come to this house are in a sense mine. I have a right to know who is writing, if not what is written. I really have a right to know the whole. Whom is the letter from, Hermia?”
    â€œJust from a friend, as Madeline’s is,” said Sir Robert, in a light tone. “That is true of most letters.”
    â€œHardly of this,” said his daughter, with her eyes still on it. “It is from Hamilton Grimstone.”
    â€œHamilton Grimstone? Mrs. Grimstone’s son?” said Eliza. “Why, you don’t know him. You can hardly have met. Why does he write to you?”
    â€œHe gives his reason.”
    â€œWell, what is it? It can’t be anything. He is almost a stranger to you.”
    â€œHe comes with his mother to things at the school. Her grand-child, his niece, is a pupil there. We have talked once or twice, but not in a way to lead to anything.”
    â€œTo lead to what? Don’t make it such a mystery. It can be nothing that matters. Anyhow it is not a secret.”
    â€œIt might be; perhaps it should be. Some people would make it one, I daresay most people. I shall not. It is a proposal.”
    â€œOf marriage? Oh, it can’t be. You are making a mistake. You are reading it wrongly. It is out of the question. Let me see the words.”
    â€œNo, it should perhaps be more of a secret than that. But it is as I said. There can be no doubt.”
    â€œWell, if it is, it is a sudden thing. You must have made a conquest. It does happen suddenly sometimes.”
    Eliza looked at her step-daughter with new eyes. “You did make use of your time, and so did he. Well, it was wise of you both, if you knew your minds. Let me see the letter.”
    â€œNo, it is surely only for Hermia’s eyes,” said Sir Robert.
    But Hermia put it into Eliza’s hands as if she had no personal concern with it, and Eliza read it in a low tone, as though judging of the words. Hermia moved to check her, but desisted and heard with the rest.
    â€˜My dear Miss