She kept “dear Tom,” the Colonel, not crushed or beaten, for that was beyond the power of man to do, but at least silently acquiescent in her program:  he allowed her even to entertain her prophetical friends at his expense, now and then; and, even when among men, refrained from too bitter speech.  It was said by the Colonel’s friends that Mrs. Colonel had a tongue of her own.  Certainly, she ruled her house well and did her duty; and it was only because of her husband’s absence in Scotland that during this time she was permitting herself the refreshment of a week or two among the Illuminated.

At about six o’clock Lady Laura announced her intention of retiring for her evening meditation.  Opening out of her bedroom was a small dressing-room that she had fitted up for this purpose with all the broad suggestiveness that marks the Higher Thought:  decked with ornaments emblematical of at least three religions, and provided with a faldstool and an exceedingly easy chair.  It was here that she was accustomed to spend an hour before dinner, with closed eyes, emancipating herself from the fetters of sense; and rising to a due appreciation of that Nothingness that was All, from which All came and to which it retired.

“I must go, dearest; it is time.”

A ring at the bell below made her pause.

“Do you think that can be Mr. Vincent?” she said, pleasantly apprehensive.  “It’s not the right day, but one never knows.”

A footman’s figure entered.

“Mr. Baxter, my lady....  Is your ladyship at home?”

“Mr. Baxter—­”

Mrs. Stapleton rose.

“Let me see him instead, dearest....  You remember ... from Stantons.”

“I wonder what he wants?” murmured the hostess.  “Yes, do see him, Maud; you can always fetch me if it’s anything.”

Then she was gone.  Mrs. Stapleton sank into a chair again; and in a minute Laurie was shaking hands with her.

Mrs. Stapleton was accustomed to deal with young men, and through long habit had learned how to flatter them without appearing to do so.  Laurie’s type, however, was less familiar to her.  She preferred the kind that grow their hair rather long and wear turn-down collars, and have just found out the hopeless banality of all orthodoxy whatever.  She even bore with them when they called themselves unmoral.  But she remembered Laurie, the silent boy at lunch last week, she had even mentioned him to Lady Laura, and received information about the village girl, more or less correct.  She was also aware that he was a Catholic.

She gave him her hand without rising.

“Lady Laura asked me to excuse her absence to you, Mr. Baxter.  To be quite truthful, she is at home, but had just gone upstairs for her meditation.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, you know; we think that so important, just as you do.  Do sit down, Mr. Baxter.  You have had tea?”

“Yes, thanks.”