But Coral, who perhaps had not met with too much kindness in her life, revealed a gratefully truculent capacity for protecting not only herself but the mother-in-law who was good to her. Mrs. Cloud had to smile sometimes and come to the rescue with a “My dear!” that, though it checked her, never seemed to hurt Coral’s feelings. Brackenhurst, retiring in confusion, marvelled how well the two hit it off: was reduced to wondering what Mr. Justin Cloud—Mr. Cloud now, I suppose—would have to say to it all when he arrived. Mr. Cloud, as you have heard, had a good deal to say, not to Brackenhurst or to his little worn mother, but to Laura. Justin, it may as well be admitted at once, justified Brackenhurst’s worst hopes. He did not get on with his sister-in-law. Now of all Justin’s good qualities Laura most admired his broad-minded tolerance of every sin and foible of humanity that did not get on his nerves. To listen to him afterwards, when Brackenhurst had been to tea and gossip, divided her between intense admiration of his generosity and a guilty sense of her own meaner nature. Second cups would be filling, as a rule, and cake plates emptying, and the Brackenhurst that had been invited would be discussing in detail the Brackenhurst that had not, before Justin would remember that it was tea-time and make his entrance. Laura loved his entrances. He would pause in the doorway to survey the room, his shy smile comically contradicted by his air (quite unconscious, to be sure) of well knowing that his arrival must always be an event, and, largely beaming, would await attention. That accorded, he would move forward with dignity and deliberation—he was always deliberate—and so achieve a seat. He would refuse food from any hand, which always embitters a woman; because he had come, not to enjoy himself, but to please his mother and help her with her tea-party. He did help her, too, as a son does by being a a son and good-looking and too big for the room, but on the whole he was perhaps more impressive than stimulating. Conversationally he needed room to turn in and when the room was full of Brackenhurst, petticoated Brackenhurst——You understand? He knew, at any rate, that his mother understood. But he was quite ready to listen. He would sit back in his armchair, his grave attentive gaze fixed on each visitor as she spoke, not speaking himself, but, it could be felt, giving them their chance, dispassionately giving them their chance to live up to his standard. They seldom did. But they talked, because he made them nervous, faster than ever and a little more shrilly and foolishly and indiscreetly than they would otherwise have done: and were vexed with themselves when they got home. And Justin, looking more than ever like an intelligent little boy at a wedding, would ponder their alarums and excursions as he made up for his tea at dinner-time, and finally break out— “What’s Mrs. Gedge got her knife into the Mouldes for? Quite harmless, aren’t they?”