She could not say who, not yet. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. He is steeped in the conventions. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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