She had known him now for three years, though owing to her own absence in France a part of the time, and his absence in London for the rest, she had seen nothing of this last affair.  At first she had liked him exceedingly; he had seemed to her ardent, natural, and generous.  She had liked his affection for his mother and his demonstrativeness in showing it; she had liked his well-bred swagger, his manner with servants, his impulsive courtesy to herself.  It was a real pleasure to her to see him, morning by morning, in his knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, or his tweed suit; and evening by evening in his swallow-tail coat and white shirt, and the knee breeches and buckled shoes that he wore by reason of the touch of picturesque and defiant romanticism that was so obvious a part of his nature.  Then she had begun, little by little, to perceive the egotism that was even more apparent; his self-will, his moodiness, and his persistence.

Though, naturally, she had approved of his conversion to Catholicism, yet she was not sure that his motives were pure.  She had hoped indeed that the Church, with its astonishing peremptoriness, might do something towards a moral conversion, as well as an artistic and intellectual change of view.  But this, it seemed, had not happened; and this final mad episode of Amy Nugent had fanned her criticism to indignation.  She did not disapprove of romance—­in fact she largely lived by it—­but there were things even more important, and she was as angry as she could be, with decency, at this last manifestation of selfishness.

For the worst of it was that, as she knew perfectly well, Laurie was rather an exceptional person.  He was not at all the Young Fool of Fiction.  There was a remarkable virility about him, he was tender-hearted to a degree, he had more than his share of brains.  It was intolerable that such a person should be so silly.

She wondered what sorrow would do for him.  She had come down from Scotland the night before, and down here to Herefordshire this morning; she had not then yet seen him; and he was now at the funeral....

Well, sorrow would be his test.  How would he take it?

Mrs. Baxter broke in on her meditations.

“Maggy, darling ... do you think you can do anything?  You know I once hoped....”

The girl looked up suddenly, with so vivid an air that it was an interruption.  The old lady broke off.

“Well, well,” she said.  “But is it quite impossible that—­”

“Please, don’t.  I—­I can’t talk about that.  It’s impossible—­utterly impossible.”

The old lady sighed; then she said suddenly, looking at the clock above the oak mantelshelf, “It is half-past.  I expect—­”

She broke off as the front door was heard to open and close beyond the hall, and waited, paling a little, as steps sounded on the flags; but the steps went up the stairs outside, and there was silence again.