She passed upstairs, and he followed more slowly.  Behind the first landing was a small conservatory; and there, amid evergreens, sat two children whose appearance would have surprised a chance visitor knowing nothing of the house and its mistress.  They obviously came from some very poor working-class home; their clothing was of the plainest possible, and, save that they were very clean and in perfect order, they might have been sitting on a doorstep in a London back street.  Mrs. Ormonde had thrown a kind word to them in hurrying by.  At the sight of Egremont they hushed their renewed talk and turned shamefaced looks to the ground.  He went on to the drawing-room, where there was the same comfort and elegance as in the library.  Almost immediately Mrs. Ormonde joined him.

‘So you want news!’ she said, with her own smile, always a little sad, always mingling tenderness with reserve on the firm lips.  ’Really, I told you everything essential in my letter.  Annabel is in admirable health, both of body and mind.  She is deep in Virgil and Dante—­what more could you wish her?  Her father, I am sorry to say, is not altogether well.  Indeed, I was guilty of doing my best to get him to London for the winter.’

‘Ah!  That is something of which your letter made no mention.’

’No, for I didn’t succeed.  At least, he shook his head very persistently.’

’I heartily wish you had succeeded.  Couldn’t you get help from Annabel—­Miss Newthorpe?’

‘Never mind; let it be Annabel between us,’ said Mrs. Ormonde, seating herself near the fire.  ’I tried to, but she was not fervent.  All the same, it is just possible, I think, that they may come.  Mr. Newthorpe needs society, however content he may believe himself.  Annabel, to my surprise, does really seem independent of such aids.  How wonderfully she has grown since I saw her two years ago!  No, no, I don’t mean physically—­though that is also true—­but how her mind has grown!  Even her letters hadn’t quite prepared me for what I found.’

Egremont was leaning on the back of a chair, his hands folded together.  He kept silence, and Mrs. Ormonde, with a glance at him, added: 

’But she is something less than human at present.  Probably that will last for another year or so.’

‘Less than human?’

’Abstract, impersonal.  With the exception of her father, you were the only living person of whom she voluntarily spoke to me.’

‘She spoke of me?’

’Very naturally.  Your accounts of Lambeth affair. interest her deeply, though again in rather too—­what shall we call it?—­too theoretical a way.  But that comes of her inexperience.’

‘Still she at least speaks of me.’

Mrs. Ormonde could have made a discouraging rejoinder.  She said nothing for a moment, her eyes fixed on the fire.  Then: 

‘But now for your own news.’

’What I have is unsatisfactory.  A week ago the class suffered a secession.  You remember my description of Ackroyd?’