This did not show itself at first. He was the mainstay of them all during the first hours of that grievous day—undertaking to break the news to his mother, to comfort his sisters, to make needful arrangements. He went to and fro, pale and serious, even severe in his self-repression; and every one said how much he felt his father's death; but no one guessed the racking misery of doubt below as to Fulvia and that father's dying words. The position in which Nigel found himself was indeed almost intolerable. Whether justly or no, he felt that he was in some measure to blame for it. True, he had been debarred from open speech to Mr. Browning; but, knowing whereto things tended, why had he not at least spoken out to Fulvia, about Ethel? He hated himself now for what might have been a cruel silence. When he thought of Fulvia's face, at the moment that her hand was placed in his by Mr. Browning, his heart sank as if leaden-weighted; and he felt like a bird caught in the toils. All through the hours of that endless morning the struggle went on. What Mr. Browning had meant or had not meant?—What he was to do, or not to do?—What he could say or could not say?—How he might free himself, and yet spare Fulvia?—These questions racked his brain incessantly, while he sat with his mother or saw to things that had to be done, never thinking of rest for himself, only longing unbearably to find out the worst as to his father's affairs—and Fulvia's! This last became in time the leading desire, so engrossing his attention that everything else was done as a steppingstone to that end. Mrs. Browning bore the shock wonderfully, so others said. She wept indeed much, showing all due natural grief, and clinging to Nigel for support; still she could find comfort in talking to Nigel about her husband. Not to anybody else, only to Nigel; and she never guessed how he shrank from it, craving to escape. The more keenly he felt, the less he could speak; also it was difficult to satisfy her with sufficient details of that last hour, while ignoring what had passed about Fulvia and himself. There seemed so little to tell, and she longed for more. It was not till midday that he had a chance of a quiet time in the study. All the long morning since Mr. Browning's death he had not once seen Fulvia. Half shyly, half unconsciously, she had kept out of his way, longing for, yet dreading, the moment when they should come together; and by no means unconsciously Nigel had seconded these efforts. He did not come to breakfast, only having a cup of tea in his mother's room; and when breakfast was over, Fulvia went out with Daisy, about mourning, which could not be put off. She would not trouble Mrs. Browning, but ordered everything that might be required, not sparing expense. Why should she? If Mrs. Browning should be short of money, there was Fulvia's money! She could always fall back upon that.