Half a century of sympathy with weddings of all sorts—­good, bad, indifferent—­beamed from her.

“I suppose,” said Shelton gloomily, “I ought not to go and see her at the station.”

“Cheer up!” replied the mother, and her son felt dreadfully depressed.

That “Cheer-up!”—­the panacea which had carried her blind and bright through every evil—­was as void of meaning to him as wine without a flavour.

“And how is your sciatica?” he asked.

“Oh, pretty bad,” returned his mother; “I expect it’s all right, really.  Cheer up!” She stretched her little figure, canting her head still more.

“Wonderful woman!” Shelton thought.  She had, in fact, like many of her fellow-countrymen, mislaid the darker side of things, and, enjoying the benefits of orthodoxy with an easy conscience, had kept as young in heart as any girl of thirty.

Shelton left her house as doubtful whether he might meet Antonia as when he entered it.  He spent a restless afternoon.

The next day—­that of her arrival—­was a Sunday.  He had made Ferrand a promise to go with him to hear a sermon in the slums, and, catching at any diversion which might allay excitement, he fulfilled it.  The preacher in question—­an amateur, so Ferrand told him—­had an original method of distributing the funds that he obtained.  To male sheep he gave nothing, to ugly female sheep a very little, to pretty female sheep the rest.  Ferrand hazarded an inference, but he was a foreigner.  The Englishman preferred to look upon the preacher as guided by a purely abstract love of beauty.  His eloquence, at any rate, was unquestionable, and Shelton came out feeling sick.

It was not yet seven o’clock, so, entering an Italian restaurant to kill the half-hour before Antonia’s arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine for his companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting a cigarette, compressed his lips.  There was a strange, sweet sinking in his heart.  His companion, ignorant of this emotion, drank his wine, crumbled his roll, and blew smoke through his nostrils, glancing caustically at the rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, red velvet, the chandeliers.  His juicy lips seemed to be murmuring, “Ah! if you only knew of the dirt behind these feathers!” Shelton watched him with disgust.  Though his clothes were now so nice, his nails were not quite clean, and his fingertips seemed yellow to the bone.  An anaemic waiter in a shirt some four days old, with grease-spots on his garments and a crumpled napkin on his arm, stood leaning an elbow amongst doubtful fruits, and reading an Italian journal.  Resting his tired feet in turn, he looked like overwork personified, and when he moved, each limb accused the sordid smartness of the walls.  In the far corner sat a lady eating, and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, round face, its coat of powder, and dark eyes, gave Shelton a shiver of disgust.  His companion’s gaze rested long and subtly on her.