'But not a line--not a word from Netta!' 'She would not dare to write, ma'am,' suggested Gladys.
'I suppose not?
but why did she go away?
Why did she leave me never to see me again ?' The following day brought the _Welshman_, Mr Prothero's weekly treat, which it generally took him the week thoroughly to read and enjoy.
Owen chanced to open it first, and, as is usually the case, stumbled at once upon the marriage of his sister.

When his father came in he was in uncontrollable fits of laughter.
'Don't be angry, father, but I can't help it.

Ha, ha, ha! D.Prothero, Esq.

of Glanyravon! Oh, I shall die of it! Now, really, father, you ought to be proud.' 'What are you making such a row about ?' said Mr Prothero looking over Owen's shoulder.
His eye caught the words, 'Howel Jenkins, Esq., and Miss Prothero, Glanyravon, and Sir John Simpson.

This was quite enough.