man, Mr. Vincent—I think I spoke of him to you last week—he is coming here just for a talk to one or two friends. There shall be no difficulty if you wish it. I will speak to Lady Laura before you go.”
Laurie looked at her without moving.
“I shall be very much obliged,” he said. “You will remember that I am not yet in the least convinced? I only want to know.”
“That is exactly the right attitude. That is all we have any right to ask. We do not ask for blind faith, Mr. Baxter—only for believing after having seen.”
Laurie nodded slowly.
“That seems to me reasonable,” he said.
There was silence for a moment. Then she determined on a bold stroke.
“There is someone in particular— Mr. Baxter—forgive me for asking—someone who has passed over—?”
She sank her voice to what she had been informed was a sympathetic tone, and was scarcely prepared for the sudden tightening of that face.
“That is my affair, Mrs. Stapleton.”
Ah well, she had been premature. She would fetch Lady Laura, she said; she thought she might venture for such a purpose. No, she would not be away three minutes. Then she rustled out.
Laurie went to the fire to wait, and stood there, mechanically warming his hands and staring down at that sleeping core of red coal.
He had taken his courage in both hands in coming at all. In spite of his brave words to Maggie, he had been conscious of a curious repulsion