too feeble to make it glow. "Do you really know?" she asked, looking at
Rowland.

"One cannot know in such a matter save after proof, and proof takes
time. But one can believe."

"And you believe?"

"I believe."

But even then Miss Garland vouchsafed no smile. Her face became graver
than ever.

"Well, well," said Mrs. Hudson, "we must hope that it is all for the
best."

Mr. Striker eyed his old friend for a moment with a look of some
displeasure; he saw that this was but a cunning feminine imitation of
resignation, and that, through some untraceable process of transition,
she was now taking more comfort in the opinions of this insinuating
stranger than in his own tough dogmas. He rose to his feet,
without pulling down his waistcoat, but with a wrinkled grin at the
inconsistency of women. "Well, sir, Mr. Roderick's powers are nothing to
me," he said, "nor no use he makes of them. Good or bad, he 's no son
of mine. But, in a friendly way, I 'm glad to hear so fine an account
of him. I 'm glad, madam, you 're so satisfied with the prospect.
Affection, sir, you see, must have its guarantees!" He paused a moment,
stroking his beard, with his head inclined and one eye half-closed,
looking at Rowland. The look was grotesque, but it was significant, and
it puzzled Rowland more than it amused him. "I suppose you 're a very