anyhow," she continued, rising in her place on the stairs and stretching
out her hand oratorically: "If this happens I shall never go back to
Southsea--never, never!--no, nor to Silchester. With my temperament I
couldn't face it. My career will be over. There'll be nothing left for
_me_, mother dear, but to stay at home with father and you."

Mrs. Temple rose, sighing heavily. "Well, I suppose we must go to bed,
though I must say it seems harder to do that than almost anything. None
of us'll sleep."

"Oh, Peter, _won't_ you do something?"

Drusilla's hands were clasped beneath an imploring face, slightly tilted
to one side. Her black hair had begun to tumble to her shoulders.

"I'll--I'll think it over," was all he could find to answer.

"Oh, _thank_ you, Peter! I must say it seems like a providence--your
being here. With my temperament I always feel that there's nothing like
a big strong man to lean on."

The ladies retired, leaving him to put out the light. For a long time he
stood, as he had entered, just inside the front door leaning on his
stick and wearing his hat and overcoat. He was musing rather than
thinking, musing on the odd way in which he seemed almost to have been
waited for. Then, irrelevantly perhaps, there shot across his memory the
phrases used by Rodney Temple less than an hour ago:

"Some call it conscience. Some call it God. Some call it neither. But,"
he added, slowly, "some _do_ call it God."