Kingston, meanwhile, with stern loyalty, forced himself to compare the neat and ladylike blankness of Gundred’s mind with the uncontrolled wanderings of her cousin’s. He himself might have much the same ideas as Isabel, but how much more restful and proper for a woman to abide by conventional views. So he denied his own feelings, and disliked more than ever the untidy apostle who seemed to have a mind as restless as his own. Isabel began developing her theme excitedly--talked of the innumerable ghosts of Brakelond, of inherited memories, previous existences, and the impossibility of supposing that life begins abruptly at birth and ends at death. No friend, at the best of times, to abstract discussions, Gundred had the orderly-minded wife’s intense dislike of such a display in the mouth of another, and an unmarried, woman. In a man it was permissible, if regrettable; in a wife it was reprehensible and unwomanly, though not utterly unpardonable; but in a mere maiden it was a dishonour to her sex, a brazen revolution, a discarding of that spiritual chastity which makes the really nice girl’s mind a closed and cloistered garden, impossible of access. Accordingly she made haste to nip the conversation. ‘You must be so tired,’ said Gundred, rising suddenly from her chair. ‘I am sure you will be glad to go to bed--yes?’ Isabel was one of the people whom a long journey animates and inspires. Quite careless as to smuts, dishevelled locks, and crooked hats, she was at her best in that weary hour of arrival which makes other women rush to looking-glasses. However, Gundred’s tones clearly conveyed the impression that etiquette, if not common politeness, demanded agreement with her statement. Isabel admitted that she was tired accordingly, and allowed herself to be guided to her room.