The manner of Christopher’s departure was not creditable. He shouldn’t behave like that, thought Catherine, whatever his feelings might be. He pretended not to be aware of Stephen’s outstretched hand, scowled at him in silence, and then immediately said good-bye to her; and as he crushed her fingers--she hadn’t time to pull off her rings--he said out loud, ‘The generations don’t do what they should, you see, after all.’ ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she said coldly. ‘Just now you laid down as a principle that they should keep together.’ And he glanced at Stephen. Stephen and Virginia. Yes; but how absurd of him to compare-- ‘That’s different,’ she said quickly and defiantly. ‘Is it?’ he said; and he was gone, and twilight seemed suddenly to come into the room. ‘What a very odd young man,’ remarked her son-in-law, after a pause during which they both stood staring at the shut door as if it might burst open again, and again let in a flood of something molten. ‘What did he mean about the generations?’ ‘I don’t think he knows himself,’ she said. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps not,’ said Stephen with that thoughtfulness which never forsook him. ‘At his age they frequently do not.’ She shivered a little, and rang the bell for Mrs. Mitcham to light the fire. Stephen looked so old and dry, as if he needed warming, and she too felt as though the evening had grown cold. But how nice it was to sit quietly with Stephen, the virtuous and the calm. So nice. So what one was used to. She hadn’t half appreciated him. He was like some quiet pond, with heaven reflected on his excellent bosom. She liked to sit by him after the raging billows of Christopher; it was peaceful, secure. What a great thing peace was, and the company of a person of one’s own age. But he did look very old, she thought. He was tiring himself out with all the improvements on the estate he and Virginia were at work on, besides preaching a series of Lenten sermons in different London churches, which obliged him to come up for the week-ends, leaving Virginia, who was not travelling just now, down at Chickover Manor with the curate to officiate on the Sundays. ‘You are tired, Stephen,’ said Catherine gently. ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No.’ How peaceful were these monosyllables; how soothing, after the turbulent speech of that demented young man. ‘Virginia is well?’ ‘Quite well. That is, as well as one can expect.’ ‘She must take care of herself.’ ‘She does. I was to give you her love.’ ‘Darling Virginia. I hope you are dining with me to-night?’ ‘Thank you--I should like to, if I may. Did you say that young fellow’s name was Monckton?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do I know him? Or, I should perhaps say, do I know anything about him?’ ‘I don’t think so.’ Stephen sat thoughtful, looking at the fire. ‘A little overwhelming, is he not?’ he said presently. ‘He is young.’ ‘Ah.’