Chapter III

OLD Lady Carberry always left London punctually on the thirtieth of June, and her daughter had to come with her. Some mysterious principle, no doubt, lay behind the selection of this day, in the great lady's mind; but whatever it was she kept it to herself. No disorganisation of this plan was permitted on any pretext whatever. She had even been heard to say when the carriage that was to take her the thirty miles did not appear upon the instant that "they would never get to Hadham Park in time"; but it was still a mystery as to what engagement awaited her there. It would have made no difference to anyone in this world besides herself, her daughter, and her immediate dependents, if she had remained in London throughout the entire year; for she did nothing whatever of any importance to anybody either in Grosvenor Street or at Hadham. Her life consisted, so to speak, entirely of scaffolding, with no building inside. The morning was divided between getting up and preparing for lunch; her afternoon between " resting " from those labours and going for a short drive in a closed brougham with two horses and two men, in no particular direction; and her evening between "resting" again, dining, taking a little recreation at cards, and going to bed. Three or four other mysterious and solemn-faced old ladies spent a large part of the year with her in the same kind of pursuits, and nothing whatever happened ever to anybody. They were all rather religious in an Established sort of way.

It had been a real relief, therefore, to Sarah when the Westons had bought the place on the other side of the valley, and she had found that Mary was younger than herself, and of the same breezy sort of nature. They rode together now and then; they wrote letters to one another; and they learnt the art of allusive conversation.

It had taken a few months before Sarah had quite got over, with respect to Mary, the odd sense of apprehensiveness with which she regarded Catholics. You never quite knew where you were with those curious people. Something rigid would suddenly emerge like a hidden rock from a smooth bay; and you spiked your boat before you knew there was any danger. This had happened once or twice to Sarah. There was an appalling memory still in her mind of a story she had once told to a middle-aged Catholic woman. The memory made her hot all over. It was not at all a bad story, you understand; but it was just of the sort that nobody tells unless very certain of the company. The silence that had followed the story, and, when Sarah got indignant, the speech that followed the silence — well, it had all been exceedingly unpleasant. But Mary seemed different, somehow. And it was after a visit together to the hideous little chapel (that always smelt of soft soap), and a conversation afterwards in the morning-room, that Sarah had lost her last trace of alarm.

" My dear," Mary had said very gravely, " I hate it all, exactly in the same sort of way that you do. It gives me the creeps. Yes, that small confessional that creaks and all the rest of it. I've got to do it, you see, because I'm a Catholic. But I try not to let religion interfere with my ordinary life at all. I think that's so important."

This was at least reassuring. It was precisely Sarah's own attitude to her own faith, and she found it satisfactory. After that the friendship had bloomed apace. And now an unsuspected mine had been exploded, and all was in confusion. She was sincerely sorry for Mary.

It was about a week later that the full significance of the situation burst upon her. She was riding through the village when she saw the first evidence of catastrophe. In front of a small enclosed court there was gathered a little group of round-eyed children, and in the midst stood a cart, drawn by*an aged white horse, piled with the most incongruous-looking objects she had ever set eyes on. As a foundation to the stack there rested several large pieces of painted furniture, grained and varnished; from the midst of which protruded two bed-legs of iron like a pair of appealing arms; the castor of one was gone, she noticed. On the top of all this was a heap of rolled carpets, and on one side a mahogany bookcase, with all the books wrapped up in whity-brown paper. But it was the crown of the heap that struck her most. A large plaster angel, painted pink, with one wing gone, lay on his face, as if in attitude to swim (she perceived that he was in an attitude of adoration reversed); and a pallid unpainted figure, terribly chipped, lay beside him on his back, grasping a small child in a position of benediction, lacking two fingers of his hand. Various other objects, like pieces of palm, a heap of pictures, a nondescript bundle, and bedroom china, were secured by string wherever room could be found. One picture in particular struck her thoughts dumb for an instant: it lay, fully displayed to the passer-by, and represented an immense heart, blood-coloured, surrounded by yellow flames, in a black, shining frame with a cracked glass.

Then, as she looked, the priest came out, in an alpaca jacket and a biretta cocked rakishly on one side, carrying a pair of indescribable yellow vases filled with dyed grass; and the moisture ran off his face.

Then she realised that the move was being made, and rode on hurriedly.

But the real shock came at the park-gate.

The gate itself was open, and she saw standing within it two figures of men, beside a dog-cart. One of these, whom she did not know, held a large particoloured piece of paper in his hands, and the other was Jack Weston. He lifted his cap as he saw her.

" Going up to see Mary? " he asked cheerfully. " I think she's out."

" I wasn't thinking of it," said the girl, as she reined up for an instant. " So glad to see you out."

She was at that point of acquaintance when she called him Jack to his wife and nothing at all to himself. She had ventured about twice on " Mr. Jack."

" Oh, I'm all right, thanks. Look here; what do you think of this? (Stand still, will you?) "

Her horse began an ineffectual prancing as a map was suddenly displayed before her.

"Oh, may I introduce Mr. Farquharson?... Lady Sarah... er... He's kind enough to undertake the building for me."

"I don't understand," she said. "What's that for? "

"Oh, that's the Carmelite convent. Mary's told you, hasn't she? "

" Convent! No! "

" Oh, I thought she'd be sure to have told you.

We're going to build a convent on the top of the hill; just above the house. French Order, you know — expelled from France; at least just going to be."

" I don't understand," said the girl. " Mary hasn't told me a word. When was it settled? "

" Oh, about a week ago. It'll be rather fine in its way; at least I think so. This is only a rough sketch, you know."

She looked at the plan as well as she could, saw lines and labels, and finally recognised the site.

" But — but where's it going to stand? It's not to be on the upper lawn, is it? "

He nodded cheerfully.

" That's the idea," he said. " It's far the best site, Mr. Farquharson says. There's a spring, and all that, you know. And I'm rather thinking of an orphanage down on this side, somewhere. But that's not settled yet."

She rode on after a word or two; and the horror deepened at every step. It really was to be; the whole place was going to be changed. It was going to become a kind of Catholic settlement, of an appalling kind — convents, orphanages; with Jack Weston in the middle as Universal Provider — mad beyond a doubt, but with a madness that could not be laid hold of; and Mary — poor Mary, distracted and miserable. It was simply wicked. But why in the world had not Mary told her?

The reason was apparent when she reached home and saw a pony carriage.

" Mrs. Weston's been waiting half an hour, my lady. I said I thought your ladyship'd be home about half-past four."

She was in Sarah's sitting-room on the first floor, a charming little square green and white place, looking out on to a small lawn that seemed to belong to it; but it was a desolate face that look ^d at her.

" Oh, my dear," she wailed. " I simply couldn't tell you before I was certain. It's too awful. But the architect's come with his horrible plans, and it's really settled. I gave in; yes, I know I shouldn't have; but it's to be on the upper lawn — just the one place. It's too dreadful."

" You gave in? "

"Yes, I had thought it out so clearly, I thought; and Jack talked about his 'individual liberty' and mine; and I really couldn't see any excuse. And he gave in so instantly on the other things. He is so dreadfully reasonable — not a bit like Jack. And I had to. And the next thing I knew was Mr. Farquharson at lunch, and his plans propped up against the spiraea, and a fountain-pen behind his ear. I'd no notion he really meant it."

" Why don't you tell him you can't? " remarked Sarah, taking off her hat.

" I daren't. He'd think it so weak. Besides, it really wouldn't be fair. You know he did give in to me."

Sarah sniffed. Mary continued.

" And then, you know, it is really rather splendid — from Jack's point of view. Oh, I quite see that. I'm dreadfully reasonable too, in a kind of way; and — and if I felt as Jack does about religion, I suppose I'd do it too. But you see I don't."

" Why didn't you tell me before? " demanded the girl sharply.

" I couldn't. It was like telling a bad dream. It would have made it real, in a kind of way. Oh, but that's not the point. The point is, what on earth I'm going to do about it?"

" Cigarette? " said Sarah.

Mary took one without attending to it. She held it without lighting it, waving it about as she talked; and it was not until a match was thrust before her face that she put it to its proper use. Even then she continued her lament, pouring out horrible phantom schemes of Jack's, worse even than the visionary orphanage, describing the proposal to live in a gamekeeper's cottage and the rest of it.

" And he's given notice to his man," she ended. " He's been with him for years; but Jack says he simply can't be waited upon any more in that kind of way. Oh, and he goes to Mass every morning, and I've got to go too generally; and he makes his meditation every morning, just as if he was pious. Jack! Meditation! But he does; I've seen him from the gallery with a little paper book. It's too dreadful! And he tries to say the divine office. I came upon him and Father Banting at it in the "garden one day. They were signing themselves like semaphores."

Sarah emitted a short chuckle.

" My dear, it won't last."

Mary shook her head dolefully.

"You don't know Jack," she said. "Cricket! That's the worst symptom. If you knew what cricket was to Jack! And he's given up the Field! He's — he's not like a real person at all. He's like a bad actor who's perfectly sincere and painstaking."

Sarah sniffed again.

" It strikes me it's the worst case of — do you mind my saying what I think, darling?"

" I want you to," wailed Mary.

" Well, it strikes me Jack's become the worst sort of prig."

"Oh, you don't understand. It isn't that. It's not the least that. He's not a prig. He doesn't think anything of himself at all. No, it's a sort of awful religious disease. Well, at any rate, it's a form that I don't like at all. Catholics do get it sometimes; and it's no good arguing. But it isn't priggishness." D

" But what about you? Doesn't he think you very wicked and worldly?"

"Not in the least. That's the dreadful thing. He explained it all carefully a day or two ago."

"Tell me."

"Well, you see, it's like this. He thinks he's been sent a warning, at least that's what the poor dear says: that — that he was living an awfully careless life — and so he was in a sort of way; and that this has been given him as another chance. Otherwise he'd have gone to hell."

" Hell! You don't believe in that, do you? " asked Sarah, seriously shocked.

Mary stopped dead.

" Yes, I do," she said, " underneath somewhere. You don't understand, dearest. But it's all underneath. Now with Jack it's come to the top. Oh, it isn't only hell he's frightened of. He talks about ingratitude, and waste of his life and money, and all the rest."

" But you — what does he think about you? "

" Oh, he doesn't condemn me at all. He told me that he knew that it was quite possible to become a saint living as I do — think of that, Sarah! — but that he mustn't. Oh, he's raving mad."

" I saw Father Banting making his move this afternoon," observed the other after a short pause.

Mary gave a little resigned gesture with her cigarette.

"Oh, that's a mere trifle now. If that was all — yes; he'll be there to-night, and to-morrow morning, and so on."

Sarah sat silent.

The situation appeared to grow worse every instant. She was not in the least persuaded against Jack's priggishness: it struck her as an appalling example of the vice she hated most. It was odd that Mary didn't see it. However, there it was — the Catholic point of view once more; and she had run herself against it, full tilt. She must just back off, and sympathise. At any rate, there was some practical advice to be given.

" Look here," she said, "you simply must not give in about this convent. It would entirely ruin the whole place to have it there. If he must have it, why in the world not stick it down by the upper lodge?"

" There's no water there."

" Then they can go and fetch it; it would be an excellent mortification, as you call it. Or have it laid on. Besides, I'm sure nuns don't wash much — particularly French nuns."

Mary shook her head grievously.'

" I gave in," she said. " I was mad; but I did."

" Then go and eat humble pie. Tell him you've changed your mind — that you simply can't have it there. You've simply no right at all to let that lovely garden be spoiled."

" He'd think me so changeable."

" Not more than he is himself."

" I don't think I can, Sarah."

" Stuff and nonsense. Of course you can. Stand up to him."

Mary shook her head slowly.

A gong resounded from beneath. Sarah jumped up.

"Oh! and I haven't changed my habit. Well, they'll have to put up with it. Come down to tea."

Mary rose.

" Do you think I must? I don't want to, you know."

" Of course you must. Don't be afraid. There's only mother, and Miss Fakenham and her nephew. They're staying here."

Persons who have nothing whatever to do frequently succeed in investing that nothing with extraordinary pomp. Lady Carberry's afternoon drive, for example, was as carefully regulated in detail and etiquette as a state progress of Queen Victoria (whom, as a matter of fact, in personal appearance she rather resembled); and afternoon tea, dispensed in the shadow of her presence, stood, so to speak, for a banquet to foreign ambassadors. Things had to be done in this way, and not that; the tea-cake was never to be placed upon the slop-basin; the toast was to be of a particular texture; and so forth.

In appearance, as has been said, her ladyship resembled the late Queen; in manner and mind a hanging judge. She was severe. Severity sat upon her like a crown. The only possible way of tolerating her therefore was to regard her from a humorous point of view; to elicit characteristic remarks and reckon them up afterwards — if possible in the company of a sympathiser; to take one's seat, so to speak, in the front row and look on at the play. Mary had soon learnt this; and Lady Carberry therefore thought her charming and right-minded.

But this afternoon the girl was too much depressed to play her part; and a kind of despair fell on her as she watched and considered. (I have felt that despair myself sometimes on watching some stout and aged lady, let us say, setting out for a drive in a brougham; or a bald-headed nobleman reading his paper at the window of his club.) Nothing much happened for some time: words proceeded out of people's mouths; small things to eat were handed to and fro; the bell was rung; young Mr. Fakenham, a slim and melancholy man of thirty years old, with hair quite beautifully brushed, did his duty; and the two old ladies discussed things like the view from the hill above Barkway and the iniquitous doings of the Liberal Government.

This was all enacted in the drawing-room, a pleasant, low room, faintly suggestive of the early Victorian era, in spite of the Morris paper and the diamond-paned windows.

About half-past five the Rector appeared.

There is nothing particular to say about him, nor had he anything particular to say, yet his coming gradually switched off the talk to another line; and a sudden remark of his brought Mary forward, on that subject on which she would have most preferred to keep silence in such company.

" I saw Mr. Weston very busy over some plans at the lower lodge gate an hour ago," he said.

Lady Carberry stopped talking.

" Yes; that was an architect with him," said Mary.

" Indeed! You are contemplating some building "

The Rector did not approve of the Westons overmuch. It had been something of a blow to him when this Papist couple had turned up; and it had taken nearly all the time that had elapsed since their coming to assure him that no harm would be done in his parish. He was a kindly enough man, getting on for sixty years old, with a very Established way of looking at things. Romanists were a superior kind of Dissenters to his loyal mind.

Mary hesitated for a moment. Then she reflected that it had to come out some time.

" Yes," she said, " my husband is thinking of building a convent for some expelled French nuns."

The Rector stopped stirring his tea. (It is a significant detail that for the clergy Lady Carberry did not usually send out for a fresh supply. Sarah, by the way, did the pouring out.)

« But " he began.

Mary felt suddenly defiant. She went on rather rapidly.

" Yes, you know. It's dreadful to think of those poor creatures; and, as Catholics, of course we sympathise with them."

"But I should not have thought that Mr. Wes-ton " began the other.

Mary thought it better to elude this implication by a swift interruption.

"Of course, it isn't exactly what we should have preferred, in itself. But things are really serious. My husband got a most piteous letter a week ago; and — er — we decided almost at once."

" Do I understand you aright, Mrs. Weston? " began Lady Carberry. " I am a little hard of hearing. Is it that you are really thinking of building a nunnery here?"

" Well, on the top of the hill behind our house — yes, certainly — a convent; yes, a nunnery."

" In those beautiful gardens? "

"That seems the best we can offer," said Mary recklessly. " It seems the obvious place."

(She saw Sarah out of the corner of her eye suddenly bend to do something with the urn. She knew exactly what she was thinking, but was too sore to care.)

Then Lady Carberry, having wheeled her battery into position, opened fire. She was not exactly insolent, nor exactly uncharitable; indeed, she professed a great breadth of view; but she discussed the French question with extraordinary frankness. It seemed to her, she said (and would Mrs. Weston forgive her for saying so?) that there must have been some reason why it was being found impossible in one civilised country after another to tolerate the Religious Orders. She did not wish to say one word against the Roman Catholic religion; indeed, she had more than one friend of that faith; but it was politics — was it not? — that made it so essential for no community to be permitted which interfered in them. It was, of course, most kind — most kind and charitable of Mr. and Mrs. Weston to give shelter to those poor creatures, who no doubt had erred in ignorance; but would it not have been the truest kindness to have just given them help on condition that they went to live in their homes again? And, again, what of convent life as a whole? Was it desirable in any case? Was it not unnatural and mistaken to shut oneself up within four walls (Mary had an intuitive flash of vision, and saw the brougham with closed windows, and Lady Carberry nodding inside) — within four walls, instead of doing useful work? And then, in any case, did Mrs. Weston think it wise to disturb a quiet little English village with foreigners, however unfortunate? Would it not be better... and so on.

Lady Carberry was extraordinarily difficult to stop when she got under way. She moved in conversation like a great brig; her wake affected all smaller craft within half a mile. Sarah made more than one attempt; but the silence that followed was so terribly abrupt on both occasions that she dared not do it again. So it flowed on to the end. Miss Fakenham, still in the hat with jet flowers in which she had shared in the progress this afternoon, nodded gentle approval, with closed lips. Mr. Fakenham, who had only arrived that evening from town, sat in an attitude of impartial deference, apart on the sofa; and the Rector ate and drank with an air of being fair to both sides.

The effect on Mary was, of course, exactly what might have been expected. She began by being bitterly amused at Lady Carberry's judicial attitude towards Carmelites. She did not in the least mind criticising them herself, but for Lady Carberry-of-the-brougham to do so was another matter. In fact, Mary had said most of the things herself, in expansive moments, including the " four walls "

phrase; but it began to seem to her that the case was a singularly weak one when put by her hostess. By the end of the exordium she was cross; by the beginning of the peroration she was furious; and when the last words sank into silence she was speechless — though she preserved an admirable composure — and was almost persuaded that the top of the hill was precisely the right place, and that Jack's scheme was admirable in all respects.

She said one sentence as soon as her chance came.

"Yes, Lady Carberry; but you must remember that Jack and I are Catholics."

Sarah came out with her to the stable yard to fetch the pony carriage; and said nothing at all till they had turned the second corner.

" My dear, I'm so sorry. What can I say?"

Mary offered no suggestions. She was still trembling a little.

" What are you going to say to Jack? "

" I don't know," said Mary. " I— I think it's abominable of him; but "

And she would make no more illuminating remarks.

in

The two dined together that night as usual in the small dining-room that they used when there were^ no guests; and once more Mary was overwhelmed by despair. (Father Banting, it seemed, in the agonies of moving, preferred to sleep for one night more in his old rooms.) The thing that brought her misery to a point was her observation that Jack took no wine and refused two courses.

She remonstrated when the men had gone out.

" My dear, it's all right. I asked old Basing this afternoon."

" And — and do you mean always to starve yourself in future?" she asked, her voice trembling a little with dismay.

Jack laughed gently.

" Look here, Mary, do remember about individual liberty. And you must remember that I'm only just finding my feet. I haven't the least idea what I shall do later."

She was silent. Then she glanced up at him, as he sat there, serene in the candle-light. It was something for him to be alive at all, she reflected. Then she put her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands.

" I want to have a long talk, Jack," she said. " Shall we have coffee out of doors? "

There was a small stone table fenced by seats in the little sheltered three-sided court where the fountain played; and here, when the windows had been shuttered behind them, and coffee had been set down under the summer stars, Mary began.

" Look here, Jack," she said, " I really do want to know how we stand. Are you going to spring any more surprises on me? That's the first thing. I want to know the sort of programme you've got in your mind. I know perfectly that you mean to be fair to me. That goes without saying. Besides, you've said it. But I want you to explain exactly what you mean to do."

He looked at her without speaking.

" And I want to make a confession," she went on. " I'll tell you plainly that I thought you, not mad, but just upset by your illness; and I've been hoping it would all pass away again. Well, it doesn't seem to me as if it is going to. So I must rearrange my mind. Please help me. I don't want to be tiresome."

Jack crossed one leg over the other, and she could see him begin to finger his moustache.

" It's nice of you to have said that," he remarked quietly. " I was hoping you would. Oh, yes, I'm perfectly sane — for the very first time, it seems to me. Well, I'll tell you all I know myself."

He tilted his chair forward again on to its fore legs.

" Well, this is the position," he said. " I've had a startler. It's no good going into all that again; but there it is. And it's just made the whole difference. It seems to me now that, knowing what I do know, it's everybody else that's a little mad — yes, my dear, even you. I see, in a sort of way, your point of view; after all, I had it myself till a week or two ago; but — but now it's exactly like a dream. Well, I want to fix that — my new point of view, I mean. I'm perfectly certain that nothing can change me again; but — well one never knows whether one mayn't get a little slack. I can see absolutely that it would be quite easy, in an ordinary way, to slip back again; and I want to take every precaution. I know now — at least, I saw it quite plainly in — in my illness, that the thing's solid. I can see now that religion, and so on, is the one thing that matters; but I can also see perfectly well that you don't. Very good. Then we must arrange matters on that footing. You've got your rights: I know that; and I'm not going to touch them. I wouldn't have touched that upper garden if you hadn't consented. By the way, you do feel that's all right, don't you? "

There was a moment's pause before she answered, long enough for her to see how much depended on it, not long enough for him to notice it.

" Of course I consent," she said quietly. " I said so,"

" Yes, but All right then. Well, I shall always consult you before doing anything that will affect you in the slightest. I mean I'm going to continue to dress for dinner, and so on; but, for the rest, you really must allow me to make experiments and go my own way. About social things — I don't know. They seem to me simple rot just now."

" We've got people coming soon," slid in Mary swiftly.

" Oh, of course here things must go on as usual. That's your affair; and I shall be polite, and all that; but about other things — I'm not so sure.... Mary, don't you see that it'll take a little time before I see things clearly, and what to do, and so on? You must really let me alone."

Mary put out her hand to the cigarettes. Jack wasn't smoking, she noticed.

" Do you see? " he said again. " It's not exactly easy for me, anyhow."

" Wait, please; I'm thinking."

They had always been on good terms, those two; almost like two boys together. They had made a special point of this, and it had worked admirably. Certainly it was good that such terms existed in such a crisis as this.

Overhead burned the myriad pin-heads in their velvet setting. The great trees across the lawn stood silent and massive against them; and the fountain did no more than throw into relief the enormous stillness of the night.

Mary was thinking hard. That last sentence had struck her with a certain sense of hope. This afternoon she had been furiously hard against him, judging him sternly from the height of her own excellent sanity. But somehow the old lady's assault had thrown her, almost unconsciously, on to the other side. That strange Catholic pride, so incomprehensible to others, had come to her rescue; she must support Jack, in speech, at any rate, and in public, against all comers that were not of the fold. And the very action of doing this had contributed to make her ask for this final explanation this evening, and to judge more leniently.

" Ifs not exactly easy for me, anyhow"

A certain hope surely lay hidden in that sentence. It was not a mere fanaticism that moved him then — not such a drunkenness of spirit as that which enables the fakir to find iron spikes his most pleasant bed: there was still effort; and effort involved the possibility of cessation of effort. Further, it was even rather admirable.

Jack's voice broke in on her silence, as if designed to emphasise her new thought.

" For instance, you don't suppose I like giving up that upper lawn. I know it's the best of the garden. But that's exactly why they must have it. You see that, don't you? "

She nodded meditatively,

" Yes, I see that," she said mechanically. " Wait a second, Jack. I want to put into exactly the right words what I want to say."

Again the silence came down. Then Mary broke it, with an abrupt movement of her head.

"Jack," she said, " I think I'd better say it plainly. It's this. I can't think that all this is more than a mood with you. I'm not saying anything against it. It's much better than a good many moods. So I'm not going to fight any more. But you don't seem to me to be quite yourself, somehow.... Of course it may be a complete change, and I may be quite wrong; but "

" My dear "

" Yes, I know; of course you're bound to think that."

" My dear, I tell you the whole world's absolutely changed. Tell me; I'm not excited, am I? "

" Well, no, but "

« Oh, Mary "

Mary turned her head to look at him. She had said just now that he was not excited; yet even already she was beginning to doubt that. There was, again, a very odd look in his face, so well as she could see it in the dim light, an almost mask-like look, with some hot passion burning through the eyes. Certainly it was Jack all right; yet there was entirely gone from his features that placid, utterly natural, almost animal expression that simple well-bred people wear. Again she hesitated. Which of the two was the real Jack? Was it conceivable that his soul had only now awakened for the first time? Or was this some gust of feeling, working on a slightly unbalanced brain, that would pass again? She strove to reassure herself that it was the second.

" No," she said. " Please don't try to persuade me. I'm being quite reasonable. Just talk to me simply about your plans."

He dropped his eyes.

Then, while he continued to talk, she continued to think, answering him only when necessary, pursuing meantime that new point that she had only just perceived. It was really a relief, she saw now, to know that he found it just a little difficult. It made him somehow more human. Perhaps even he might already be regretting the burning of the cricket bat. Of course it was intensely annoying — though she kept that annoyance loyally suppressed — that this new course of life should interfere with things like the upper garden, and that Father Banting should be in the house, and all the rest of it. Yet there began to come into her mind a certain faint sense of admiration that had been wholly lacking. She knew that she would probably be annoyed very often again; but it was a consolation to know too that it cost Jack something as well as herself. It would be easier to co-operate on that understanding, or, at least, not actively to hinder.

Yes, it was rather admirable — this furious, even fanatical response, to — to an illusion such as he was suffering from. There appeared in it a certain nobility.

... "Yes," she said suddenly, in answer to a suggestion. " Get the plans and a candle, and let's look at them. I understand better now. Give me a kiss, Jack. I'll try not to be tiresome."