That fellow!--and his creed!
That old hide-bound inquisitor, his father!
Well!--he peered at them--has she got anything whatever out of young
Tartuffe? Not she! He knew the breed. He rose discreetly, so as not to
wake Lady Coryston, and standing by the window, he watched them across the
garden, and saw their parting. Something in their demeanor struck him. "Not
demonstrative anyway," he said to himself, with a queer satisfaction.
He sat down again, and tossing the _Quarterly_ away, he took up a
volume of Browning. But he scarcely read a line. His mind was really
possessed by the Betts' story, and by the measures that might be
taken--Marcia or no Marcia!--to rouse the country-side against the
Newburys, and force them to bow to public opinion in the matter of this
tragedy. He himself had seen the two people concerned, again, that
morning--a miserable sight! Neither of them had said anything further to
him of their plans. Only Mrs. Betts had talked incoherently of "waiting to
hear from Miss Coryston." Poor soul!--she might wait.
[Illustration: HE SAT STILL, STUDYING HIS MOTHER'S STRONG, LINED FACE]
Twenty minutes passed, and then he too heard a footfall in the passage
outside, and the swish of a dress.
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