His thoughts of Lassigny had swung once more towards complete antagonism. He seemed to him far older than he really was, and far more immoral than he had any just reason to suppose him to be. He resented the assurance with which this outsider had claimed his sweet white child as his fitting mate, and even the wealth and station that alone had given him that assurance. And he also resented the ease with which he had accepted his period of banishment. He would have been angry if Lassigny had tried to communicate with Beatrix directly, and would not have liked it if he had sought to do so indirectly. But he would not have liked anything that Lassigny did or didn't do. The image of him, coming to his mind, when perhaps he had been able to forget it for a time, jerked him down into a state of gloom. After a moment's silence his face would often be darkened by a sudden frown, which did not suit its habitual agreeable candour, and had seldom before been seen on it. It had been his habit to take his morning cup of tea into one of the children's rooms and chat with them, sitting on the bed, while they drank theirs. But his visits to Beatrix were always shorter than the others, because she had a photograph of Lassigny always propped up on the table by the side of her bed, so that she could see it when she first woke in the morning; and he couldn't stand that. He never sat down on her bed, because he could see the face of the photograph from it, but walked about the room, or sat in a chair some way off. And of course she knew the reason, but wouldn't put away the photograph before he came. This was one of her little protests against his attitude; and there were others. She also could make her pretty face shut down obstinately, and did so whenever the conversation might have led naturally to mention of her lover. She almost succeeded in creating the impression that it was she who refused to have his name mentioned. At times when the family contact seemed to be at its most perfect, and the happy occupied life of the Abbey was flowing along in its pleasant course, as if its inmates were all-sufficing to one another, it would be brought up with a sudden check. There was an irritating factor at work, like a tiny stone in a shoe, that settles itself where it cannot be felt except now and then, and must eventually be got rid of. But this influence could not be got rid of. That was Grafton's trouble.