But this evening there was no piquet. Laurie had stayed later than
usual in the dining-room, and had wandered rather restlessly about
when he had joined the others. He looked at a London evening paper for
a little, paced about, vanished again, and only returned as the ladies
were making ready to depart. Then he gave them their candlesticks, and
himself came back to the drawing room.

He was, in fact, in a far more perturbed and excited mood than even
Maggie had had any idea of. She had interrupted him half-way through
the book, but he had read again steadily until five minutes before
dinner, and had, indeed, gone back again to finish it afterwards. He
had now finished it; and he wanted to think.

It had had a surprising effect on him, coming as it did upon a state
of mind intensely stirred to its depths by his sorrow. Crossness, as I
have said, had been the natural psychological result of his emotions;
but his emotions were none the less real. The froth of whipped cream
is real cream, after all.

Now Laurie had seen perfectly well the extreme unconvincingness of
Mrs. Stapleton, and had been genuine enough in his little shrug of
disapproval in answer to Maggie's, after lunch; yet that lady's
remarks had been sufficient just to ignite the train of thought. This
train had smoldered in the afternoon, had been fanned ever so slightly
by two breezes--the sense of Maggie's superiority and the faint
rebellious reaction which had come upon him with regard to his
personal religion. Certainly he had had Mass said for Amy this
morning; but it had been by almost a superstitious rather than a
religious instinct. He was, in fact, in that state of religious
unreality which occasionally comes upon converts within a year or two