Footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of voices, interrupted our odd impromptu conversation, as the Grenadier came up, followed by the tall, grave gentleman who was being shown over the house.  My sister drew me along the corridor towards her room, where she went in and closed the door behind me, yet not before I had stolen a good look at the caller—­ long enough, at least, for his face and general appearance to have made a definite impression on me.  For something strong and peaceful emanated from his presence; he moved with such quiet dignity; the glance of his eyes was so steady and reassuring, that my mind labeled him instantly as a type of man one would turn to in an emergency and not be disappointed.  I had seen him but for a passing moment, but I had seen him twice, and the way he walked down the passage, looking competently about him, conveyed the same impression as when I saw him standing at the door—­ fearless, tolerant, wise.  “A sincere and kindly character,” I judged instantly, “a man whom some big kind of love has trained in sweetness towards the world; no hate in him anywhere.”  A great deal, no doubt, to read in so brief a glance!  Yet his voice confirmed my intuition, a deep and very gentle voice, great firmness in it too.

“Have I become suddenly sensitive to people’s atmospheres in this extraordinary fashion?” I asked myself, smiling, as I stood in the room and heard the door close behind me.  “Have I developed some clairvoyant faculty here?” At any other time I should have mocked.

And I sat down and faced my sister, feeling strangely comforted and at peace for the first time since I had stepped beneath The Towers’ roof a month ago.  Frances, I then saw, was smiling a little as she watched me.

“You know him?” I asked.

“You felt it too?” was her question in reply.  “No,” she added, “I don’t know him—­beyond the fact that he is a leader in the Movement and has devoted years and money to its objects.  Mabel felt the same thing in him that you have felt—­and jumped at it.”

“But you’ve seen him before?” I urged, for the certainty was in me that he was no stranger to her.

She shook her head.  “He called one day early this week, when you were out.  Mabel saw him.  I believe—­” she hesitated a moment, as though expecting me to stop her with my usual impatience of such subjects—­“I believe he has explained everything to her—­the beliefs he embodies, she declares, are her salvation—­might be, rather, if she could adopt them.”

“Conversion again!” For I remembered her riches, and how gladly a Society would gobble them.

“The layers I told you about,” she continued calmly, shrugging her shoulders slightly—­“the deposits that are left behind by strong thinking and real belief—­but especially by ugly, hateful belief, because, you see—­unfortunately there’s more vital passion in that sort—­”