Baird also remembered what a man at the club had told him of Garvin's father: "The old colonel was a fine sort, hot-tempered and proud as the deuce, but a gallant sort, just the same--until the war broke him. Then came the hard times, beastly hard times for everybody, and the colonel went under--began to soak and went on soaking to the end." Edward and Judith had come before that time, but Garvin had not. "I suppose the poor devil can't help it," Baird thought, and shrugged away his annoyance. Besides, he was going to become one of the clan; it was his duty to do all he could for Garvin. In that soberly responsible frame of mind Baird rode up to Westmore, and the long imposing structure that for nearly two centuries had housed Judith's ancestors impressed him somberly. Perhaps it was as well, on the whole, not to have any known ancestors; it must be rather eery to recognize your great-grandfather cropping up in yourself--damned uncomfortable sometimes ... Well, Judith had certified ancestors enough to supply their family with credentials and with ghosts. Their children... Baird's thoughts had progressed to this point and beyond when he reached Westmore. In the last twenty-four hours he had considered every possible responsibility connected with matrimony and had thought very little about the thing that turns the world golden, that transcends even the transports of passion, hallows heaven and earth. But he had not realized that. Marriage was a serious thing; it had always impressed him as an almost terrifyingly serious thing. The door was opened to him by Hetty, the big negress. "Can I see Miss Judith?" Baird asked, preparing to step in. "Miss Judith ain't here, Mr. Baird--she's done gone fo' a visit." "Not here?" Baird said blankly. "No, suh--she went this evenin' fo' over Sunday--to Fair Field. They's a party holdin' at the club--she's gone fo' hit." Baird managed to say, casually, "Very well--just tell her, when she comes back, that I called." "Yes, suh." Baird rode down the Westmore Road even more slowly than he had come up. His first feeling was a hot sense of rebuff--until he began to ask himself why Judith had run away from him?... But she had not run away from him; she had not gone until that evening?... There had been the afternoon during which she might reasonably expect him to come--and the morning that might have brought her a letter from him. It came over Baird then, with a warm flush, a shock of surprise at himself, that he had been a pretty sort of lover! He had ridden away after that kiss of love she had given him, when even a stupid man would have found an excuse for staying; he had written no impassioned note that Sam must deliver at daybreak; he had dallied through the afternoon, and had ridden composedly up to Westmore with the whole future mapped out in his mind ... Good lord!... And he was a passionate man, too--ordinarily!