‘I am surprised that you have taken such a liking to Mr. Walsh.’

Sidwell coloured, and made answer in the quiet tone which her mother had come to understand as a reproof, a hint of defective delicacy: 

’I don’t think I have behaved in a way that should cause you surprise.’

‘It seemed to me that you were really very—­friendly with him.’

‘Yes, I am always friendly.  But nothing more.’

’Don’t you think there’s a danger of his misunderstanding you, Sidwell?’

’I don’t, mother.  Mr. Walsh understands that we differ irreconcilably on subjects of the first importance.  I have never allowed him to lose sight of that.’

Intellectual differences were of much less account to Mrs. Warricombe than to her daughter, and her judgment in a matter such as this was consequently far more practical.

’If I may advise you, dear, you oughtn’t to depend much on that.  I am not the only one who has noticed something—­I only mention it, you know.’

Sidwell mused gravely.  In a minute or two she looked up and said in her gentlest voice: 

‘Thank you, mother.  I will be more careful.’

Perhaps she had lost sight of prudence, forgetting that Mr. Walsh could not divine her thoughts.  Her interest in him was impersonal; when he spoke she was profoundly attentive, only because her mind would have been affected in the same way had she been reading his words instead of listening to them.  She could not let him know that another face was often more distinct to her imagination than his to her actual sight, and that her thoughts were frequently more busy with a remembered dialogue than with this in which she was engaged.  She had abundantly safe-guarded herself against serious misconstruction, but if gossip were making her its subject, it would be inconsiderate not to regard the warning.

It came, indeed, at a moment when she was very willing to rest from social activity.  At the time of her last stay in London, three years ago, she had not been ripe for reflection on what she saw.  Now her mind was kept so incessantly at strain, and her emotions answered so intensely to every appeal, that at length she felt the need of repose.  It was not with her as with the young women who seek only to make the most of their time in agreeable ways.  Sidwell’s vital forces were concentrated in an effort of profound spiritual significance.  The critical hour of her life was at hand, and she exerted every faculty in the endeavour to direct herself aright.

Having heard from his brother that Sidwell had not been out for several days, Buckland took an opportunity of calling at the house early one morning.  He found her alone in a small drawing-room, and sat down with an expression of weary discontent.  This mood had been frequent in the young man of late.  Sidwell remarked a change that was coming over him, a gloominess unnatural to his character.