A movement in the garden outside diverted his attention. He looked up and saw two figures--Marcia and Newbury. A sight which roused in him afresh--on the instant--all his fiercest animosities. That fellow!--and his creed! That old hide-bound inquisitor, his father! Well!--he peered at them--has she got anything whatever out of young Tartuffe? Not she! He knew the breed. He rose discreetly, so as not to wake Lady Coryston, and standing by the window, he watched them across the garden, and saw their parting. Something in their demeanor struck him. "Not demonstrative anyway," he said to himself, with a queer satisfaction. He sat down again, and tossing the _Quarterly_ away, he took up a volume of Browning. But he scarcely read a line. His mind was really possessed by the Betts' story, and by the measures that might be taken--Marcia or no Marcia!--to rouse the country-side against the Newburys, and force them to bow to public opinion in the matter of this tragedy. He himself had seen the two people concerned, again, that morning--a miserable sight! Neither of them had said anything further to him of their plans. Only Mrs. Betts had talked incoherently of "waiting to hear from Miss Coryston." Poor soul!--she might wait. [Illustration: HE SAT STILL, STUDYING HIS MOTHER'S STRONG, LINED FACE] Twenty minutes passed, and then he too heard a footfall in the passage outside, and the swish of a dress. Marcia! He opened the door. "Don't come in. Mother's asleep." Marcia stared at him in amazement. Then she stepped past him, and stood on the threshold surveying her mother. Her pathetic look conveyed the instinctive appeal of the young girl turning in the crisis of her life to her natural friend, her natural comforter. And it remained unanswered. She turned and beckoned to Coryston. "Come with me--a moment." They went noiselessly down the staircase leading from Lady Coryston's wing, into a room which had been their schoolroom as children, on the ground floor. Marcia laid a hand on her brother's arm. "Coryston--I was coming to speak to mother. I have broken off my engagement." "Thank the Lord!" cried Coryston, taken wholly aback. "Thank the Lord!" He would have kissed her in his relief and enthusiasm. But Marcia stepped back from him. Her pale face showed a passionate resentment. "Don't speak about him, Corry! Don't say another word about him. You never understood him, and I'm not going to discuss him with you. I couldn't bear it. What's wrong with mother?" "She's knocked over--by that girl, Enid Glenwilliam. She saw her this morning." He described the situation. Marcia showed but a languid interest. "Poor mother!" she said, absently. "Then I won't bother her with my affairs--till to-morrow. Don't tell her anything, Corry. Good-by." "I say, Marcia--old woman--don't be so fierce with me. You took me by surprise--" he muttered, uncomfortably.