He leant against the mantelpiece, talking to her about both cases with a quick incisive common-sense—­not unkind, but without a touch of unnecessary sentiment, still less of the superior person—­which represented one of the moods she liked best in him.  In speaking of the poor he always took the tone of comradeship, of a plain equality, and the tone was, in fact, genuine.

“Do you know,” he said presently, “I did not tell you before, but I am certain that Hurd’s wife is afraid of you, that she has a secret from you?”

“From me! how could she?  I know every detail of their affairs.”

“No matter.  I listened to what she said that day in the cottage when I had the boy on my knee.  I noticed her face, and I am quite certain.  She has a secret, and above all a secret from you.”

Marcella looked disturbed for a moment, then she laughed.

“Oh, no!” she said, with a little superior air.  “I assure you I know her better than you.”

Wharton said no more.

“Marcella!” called a distant voice from the hall.

The girl gathered up her white skirts and her flowers in haste.

“Good-night!”

“Good-night!  I shall hear you come home and wonder how you have sped.  One word, if I may!  Take your role and play it.  There is nothing subjects dislike so much as to see royalty decline its part.”

She laughed, blushed, a little proudly and uncertainly, and went without reply.  As she shut the door behind her, a sudden flatness fell upon her.  She walked through the dark Stone Parlour outside, seeing still the firmly-knit lightly-made figure—­boyish, middle-sized, yet never insignificant—­the tumbled waves of fair hair, the eyes so keenly blue, the face with its sharp mocking lines, its powers of sudden charm.  Then self-reproach leapt, and possessed her.  She quickened her pace, hurrying into the hall, as though from something she was ashamed or afraid of.

In the hall a new sensation awaited her.  Her mother, fully dressed, stood waiting by the old billiard-table for her maid, who had gone to fetch her a cloak.

Marcella stopped an instant in surprise and delight, then ran up to her.  “Mamma, how lovely you look!  I haven’t seen you like that, not since I was a child.  I remember you then once, in a low dress, a white dress, with flowers, coming into the nursery.  But that black becomes you so well, and Deacon has done your hair beautifully!”

She took her mother’s hand and kissed her cheek, touched by an emotion which had many roots.  There was infinite relief in this tender natural outlet; she seemed to recover possession of herself.

Mrs. Boyce bore the kiss quietly.  Her face was a little pinched and white.  But the unusual display Deacon had been allowed to make of her pale golden hair, still long and abundant; the unveiling of the shapely shoulders and neck, little less beautiful than her daughter’s; the elegant lines of the velvet dress, all these things, had very nobly transformed her.  Marcella could not restrain her admiration and delight.  Mrs. Boyce winced, and, looking upward to the gallery, which ran round the hall, called Deacon impatiently.