As they turned at the end of the path the Marquis glanced up at the house, and at that moment Madame de Château-Foix emerged from the structure in the Palladian style by which the Marquis Octavien-François had, in the days of Louis XIV., somewhat disastrously enlarged his semi-Renaissance dwelling-place. She stood for a moment on the level stone space at the head of the flight of steps running down to the terrace, then, smiling at her son, seated herself in a low chair set in the shade of the incongruous pavilion, which was in fact her boudoir. Gilbert and the priest continued their leisurely and absorbed promenade. Beside the Marquise, on a table, lay some unfinished needlework, and in its bright folds a dingy little volume, to which her hand went out mechanically. But she did not read it; her eyes strayed to the figure of her son, as he passed with bent head and a puzzled expression in the gaze which now and again met her own, but hardly saw her. She glanced quickly at his companion. At that instant the Curé leisurely folded up the letter which he had been reading, and handed it back to the Marquis. In his face, at least, there was no lack of comprehension, no hesitation. But M. des Graves would not attempt more than the bare expression of his thoughts; he would neither urge nor persuade. That was not his way. If it had been, Gilbert de Chantemerle would not have been down there with him now; that his mother knew very well. She recognised—was rather proud of—the unyielding character of her son, his insusceptibility to influence, his inflexible adherence to his own standards of conduct—and these were high. She realised, though less clearly, how little M. des Graves tried to influence him. Devout Catholic as she was, it was only given to her in rare glimpses to see that the priest had a settled policy of holding his hand, not from the impossibility of accomplishing anything, but from principle. She knew that he held strong views on the abuse of power. There was always about this old friend of her husband’s a sensation—to her uncomfortable—of force voluntarily withheld from exercise. Sometimes the sensation affected her with almost physical irritation. And deep down in her soul, beneath the occasional mild exultation at her son’s untrammelled state, lay the regret that M. des Graves had not brought his influence to bear on Gilbert’s spiritual life. For Gilbert’s somewhat devout boyhood had merged into a manhood of indifference; his preoccupation with Catholicism was ethical, his creed a joyless allegiance to a system of morals. He had never openly broken away from the Church as his father had done, and to her ordinances he paid the bare outward homage that she demanded—but it was less than a minimum payment. Not without reason, as she suspected, did he always absent himself from Chantemerle at Easter, timing his annual visit to his less exacting Southern tenantry to coincide with that critical festival.