He wondered what his mother and Maggie would say if they knew his
errand, for he had sufficient self-control not to have told them of
his intentions. As regards his mother he did not care very much. Of
course she would deprecate it and feebly dissuade; but he recognized
that there was no particular principle behind, beyond a sense of
discomfort at the unknown. But it was necessary for him to argue with
himself about Maggie. The angry kind of contempt that he knew she
would feel needed an answer; and he gave it by reminding himself that
she had been brought up in a convent-school, that she knew nothing of
the world, and that, lastly, he himself did not take the matter
seriously. He was aware, too, that the instinctive repulsion that she
felt so keenly found a certain echo in his own feelings; but he
explained this by the novelty of the thing.

In fact, the attitude of mind in which he more or less succeeded in
arraying himself was that of one who goes to see a serious conjurer.
It would be rather fun, he thought, to see a table dancing. But there
was not wholly wanting that inexplicable tendency of some natures
deliberately to deceive themselves on what lies nearest to their
hearts.

Mr. Vincent had not yet arrived when he was shown upstairs, even
though Laurie himself was late. (This was partly deliberate. He
thought it best to show a little nonchalance.) There was only a young
clergyman in the room with the ladies; and the two were introduced.

"Mr. Baxter--Mr. Jamieson."

He seemed a harmless young man, thought Laurie, and plainly a little
nervous at the situation in which he found himself, as might a