Mercy's indignation at her reception was too great for her sense of
courtesy.

"I don't think it was your fault at all, Mr. White," she exclaimed.
"Good-night," and she was out of sight before Stephen could think of a
word to say.

Very slowly he walked back into the sitting-room. He had seldom been so
angry with his mother; but his countenance betrayed no sign of it, and he
took his seat opposite her in silence. Silence, absolute, unconquerable
silence, was the armor which Stephen White wore. It was like those
invisible networks of fine chains worn next the skin, in which many men in
the olden time passed unscathed through years of battles, and won the
reputation of having charmed lives. No one suspected the secret. To the
ordinary beholder, the man seemed accoutred in the ordinary fashion of
soldiers; but, whenever a bullet struck him, it glanced off harmlessly as
if turned back by a spell. It was so with Stephen White's silence: in
ordinary intercourse, he was social genial; he talked more than average
men talk; he took or seemed to take, more interest than men usually take
in the common small talk of average people; but the instant there was a
manifestation of anger, of discord of any thing unpleasant, he entrenched
himself in silence. This was especially the case when he was reproached or
aroused by his mother. It was often more provoking to her than any amount
of retort or recrimination could have been. She had in her nature a
certain sort of slow ugliness which delighted in dwelling upon a small
offence, in asking irritating questions about it, in reiterating its
details; all the while making it out a matter of personal unkindness or
indifference to her that it should have happened. When she was in these
moods, Stephen's silence sometimes provoked her past endurance.