Luke turned upon her with an expression completely different from any she had ever seen him wear before. He seemed to have suddenly grown much older. His mouth was drawn, and a little open; and his cheeks were pale and indented by deep lines. “I would give my soul,” he said with intense emphasis, “to have this thing otherwise. I have already been to Lacrima--to Miss Traffio, I mean--but she will do nothing. She is mad, too, I think. I hoped to get her to marry my brother, off-hand, anyhow; and leave the place with him. But she won’t hear of it. I can’t understand her! It almost seems as if she _wanted_ to marry that clown. But she can’t really; it’s impossible. I’m afraid that fool Quincunx is at the bottom of it.” “Something must be done! Something must be done!” wailed Vennie. “_Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus!_” muttered Mr. Taxater. “_Speravit anima mea in Domino._” “I shouldn’t mind so much the state he’s in,” continued Luke, “if I didn’t remember how my mother went. She got just like this before she died. It’s true my father was a brute to her. But this different kind of blow seems to have just the same effect upon James. Fool that I am, I must needs start a miserable quarrel with him when he was most worried. If anything happens, I tell you I shall feel I’m responsible for the whole thing, and no one else!” All this while Mr. Taxater had remained silent, his chin on the handle of his cane. At last he lifted up his head. “I think,” he began softly, “I should rather like a word alone with Mr. Luke, Vennie. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind wandering down the lane a step or two? Then I can follow you; and we’ll leave this young man to get his brother home.” The girl rose obediently and pressed the youth’s hand. “If anyone can help you,” she said with a look of tender sympathy, “it is Mr. Taxater. He has helped me in my trouble.” As soon as Vennie was out of hearing the theologian looked straight into Luke’s face. “I have an idea,” he said, “that if any two people can find a way out of this wretched business, it is you and I together.” “Well, sir,” said Luke, seating himself by Mr. Taxater’s side and glancing apprehensively towards the church-porch; “I have tried what I can do with Miss Romer, but she maintains that nothing she can say will make any difference to Miss Traffio.” “I fancy there is one thing, however, that would make a difference to Mr. Quincunx,” remarked the theologian significantly. “I am taking for granted,” he added, “that it is this particular marriage which weighs so heavily on your brother. He would not suffer if he saw her wedded to a man she loved?” “Ah!” exclaimed Luke, “your idea is to appeal to Quincunx. I’ve thought of that, too. But I’m afraid it’s hopeless. He’s such an inconceivably helpless person. Besides, he’s got no money.” “Suppose we secured him the money?” said Mr. Taxater. Luke’s countenance momentarily brightened; but the cloud soon settled on it again.