“Tell Mr. Seymour some of those things that you were telling us last night—about Moscow and Russian life.” Mrs. Trenchard’s eyes, having concluded their work of consoling Seymour, fastened themselves upon Mark,—watching like eyes behind closed windows; strangely in addition to their conviction that some outrage had been committed there was also a suspicion of fear—but they were the mild, glazed eyes of a stupid although kindly woman.... * * * * * Mark that evening, going up to dress for dinner, thought to himself, “I really can’t stay here any longer. It isn’t decent, besides, they don’t like me.” He found, half in the dusk, half in the moonlight of the landing-window Katherine, looking for an instant before she went to her room, at the dark Abbey-towers, the sky with the stars frosted over, it seemed, by the coldness of the night, at the moon, faintly orange and crisp against the night blue. He stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, looking into her eyes, very soft and mild but always with that lingering humour behind their mildness. “I’m afraid I was rude to that fellow this afternoon.” “Yes,” she said, turning to him but with her eyes still on the black towers. “You were—but it would have no effect on Mr. Seymour.” He felt, as he stood there, that he wished to explain that he was not naturally so unpolished a barbarian. “Russia,” he began, hesitating and looking at her almost appealingly, “is a sore point with me. You can’t tell—unless you’ve lived there how it grows upon you, holds you, and, at last, begs you to stand up for it whenever it may be attacked. And he didn’t know—really he didn’t—” “You’re taking it much too seriously,” she said, laughing at him, he felt. “No one thought that he _did_ know. But Mother likes him and he’s Henry’s friend. And we all stick together as a family.” “I’m afraid your mother thought me abominable,” he said, looking up at her and looking away again. “Mother’s old-fashioned,” Katherine answered. “So am I—so are we all. We’re an old-fashioned family. We’ve never had anyone like you to stay with us before.” “It’s abominable that I should stay on like this. I’ll go to-morrow.” “No, don’t do that. Father loves having you. We all like you—only we’re a little afraid of your ways”—she moved down the passage. “We’re very good for you, I expect, and I’m sure you’re very good for us.” She suddenly turned back towards him, and dropping her voice, quite solemnly said to him, “The great thing about us is that we’re fond of one another. That makes it all the harder for anyone from outside....” “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, carrying on her note of confidence, “I like people to like me. I’m very foolish about it. It’s the chief thing I want.” “I like people to like me, too,” Katherine answered, raising her voice and moving now definitely away from him. “Why shouldn’t one?” she ended. “Don’t you be afraid, Mr. Mark. It’s all right.”