His murmurs died away in the hall, Mr. Clode with much presence of mind opening the door for him and letting him out. When they ceased, in the room he had left there was absolute silence. The men avoided one another’s eyes. The women, their lips parted, looked each at her neighbor. Mrs. Homfray, the young wife of an old husband, was the first to speak. “Well, I never!” she sighed. That broke the spell. The rector, who had hitherto gazed darkly, with flushed brow and compressed lips, at the hearth-rug, roused himself. “I think I had better go,” he said, his tone hard and ungracious, “You will excuse me, I am sure, Mrs. Hammond. Good-night. Good-night.” The archdeacon took a step forward, with the intention of intercepting him, but thought better of it, and stopped, seeing that the time was not propitious. So, save to murmur an answer to his general farewell, no one spoke, and he left the room under the impression, though he himself had set the tone, that he stood alone among them; that he had not their sympathies. Afterward he remembered this, and it added to his unhappiness, and to the pride with which he endured it. But at the moment he was scarcely aware of the impression. The blow had fallen so swiftly, it was so unexpected and so crushing, that he went out into the darkness stunned and bewildered, conscious only, as are men whom some sudden accident has befallen, that in a moment all was changed with him. An hour later Mrs. Hammond and her daughter alone remained. The last of the visitors had departed, the dinner hour was long past, but they still sat on, fascinated by the topic, reproducing for one another’s benefit the extraordinary scene they had witnessed, and discussing its probable consequences. “I am sure, quite sure, poor fellow, that he knew nothing about it,” Mrs. Hammond declared for the twentieth time. “So the archdeacon seemed to think, mamma,” Laura answered. “And yet he said that probably Mr. Lindo would have to go.” “Because of the miserable attacks these people have made upon him!” her mother rejoined with indignation. “But think of the pity of it! Think of the income! And such a house as it is!” “It _is_ a nice house,” Laura assented, thoughtfully gazing into the fire, a slight access of color in her cheeks. “I think it is abominable!” “And then,” Laura said, continuing her chain of reflection, “there is the view from the drawing-room windows.” “Oh, it is too bad! It is really too bad! I declare I am quite upset, I am so sorry for him. Lord Dymnore ought to be ashamed of himself!” “Yes,” Laura assented rather absently, “I quite agree with you. And as for the hall, with a Persian rug or two it would be quite as good as another room.” “What hall? Oh, at the rectory?” “Yes.”