Katharine had begun to express very dangerous and subversive opinions in regard to things in general and in respect of religion in particular. Her mind seemed to have reached its growth and to have entered upon its development. Katharine was going astray after strange new doctrines, Alexander thought, and he did not like the savour of mysticism in the fragments of her conversation which he occasionally overheard. Though he could not with equanimity bear to hear any one deny the existence of the soul, he disliked almost more to hear it spoken of as though humanity could have anything to do with it directly, beyond believing in its presence and future destiny. Whether this was due to the form of the traditions in which he had been brought up, or was the result of his own exceedingly vague beliefs in regard to the soul’s nature, it is of no use to enquire. The fact was the same in its consequences. He was very much disturbed about Katharine’s views, as he called them, and at the same time he was conscious for the first time in his life that no confidence existed between her and him, and that their spheres of thought on all subjects were separated by a blank and impenetrable wall.

Then, too, Katharine had of late shown a strong predilection for the society of Paul Griggs, a man of letters and of considerable reputation, who was said to have strange views upon many subjects, who had lived in many countries, and who had about him something half mysterious, which offended the commonplace respectability of Alexander Lauderdale’s character. Not that Alexander thought himself commonplace, and as for his respectability, it was of the solid kind which the world calls social position, and which such people themselves secretly look upon as the proud inheritance of an ancient and honourable family. Everything that Paul Griggs said jarred unpleasantly on Alexander Lauderdale’s single but sensitive string, which was his conservatism.

Griggs disclaimed ever having had anything to do with modern Buddhism, for instance. But he had somehow got the reputation of being what people call a Buddhist when they know nothing of Buddha. As a matter of fact, he happened to be a Roman Catholic. But Mr. Lauderdale had heard him use expressions which had fixed the popular impression in his mind. The conversation of such a man could not be good for an impressionable girl like Katharine, he thought. He took it for granted that Katharine was impressionable because she was a girl and young. Mr. Griggs said very paradoxical things sometimes, and Katharine quoted them afterwards. Mr. Lauderdale hated paradox as he hated everything which was in direct opposition to generally received opinion. It was most disagreeable to him to hear that there was no such thing as a future, as distinguished from past or present, when so much of his private meditation had for its object the definition of the future state for himself and others. He did not like Mr. Griggs’ way of referring to the popular idea of the Supreme Being as a ‘magnified, non-natural man’—and when Griggs quoted Dante’s opinion in the matter, Alexander Lauderdale set down Dante Alighieri as an insignificant agnostic, which was unjust, and branded Mr. Griggs as another, which was an exaggeration. Now, whatever the truth might be, he considered that Katharine was in great danger, and that although Providence was necessarily just, it might have shown more kindness and discretion in selecting the olive branches it had vouchsafed to him.

It need hardly be said that of the two extremes to which his daughters seemed inclined to go, he preferred the one chosen by Katharine. That, at least, gave no open offence. Morally, it was worse to dissect the traditional soul as it had been handed down in its accepted form through many generations of religious men, than to smoke a cigarette after a dinner party. But in practice, the effect of the cigarette upon the opinion of society was out of all proportion greater, and Charlotte was therefore worse than Katharine, as a daughter, though she might not be so bad when looked upon as a subject for potential salvation.

All this disturbed Alexander Lauderdale very much, for he saw no immediate prospect of any improvement in the condition of things. For once in his life his daughters were almost his chief preoccupation. If he had been subject to absence of mind, something might, perhaps, have got out of order in the minute details of the Trust Company’s working. In that respect, however, he was superior to circumstances. But when he was momentarily idle, his mind reverted to its accustomed channels, and the problem regarding the future of his daughters got into the way and upset his financial calculations, and made him really unhappy. For his financial calculations were apparently of a nature which made them pleasant to contemplate, although he declared himself to be so very poor.

On that particular Saturday morning he was interrupted in his solitude by the sudden appearance of his wife. It was not often that she had entered his office during the ten years since he had been installed in it, and he was so much surprised by her coming that he positively started, and half rose out of his chair.

Mrs. Lauderdale was a beautiful woman still, and would be beautiful if she lived to extreme old age. But she was already past the period up to which a woman may hope to preserve the freshness of a late youth. The certainty that her beauty was waning had come over her very suddenly on a winter’s evening not long ago, when she had noticed that the man who was talking to her looked persistently at Katharine instead of at herself; and just then, catching sight of her face in a mirror, and being tired at the time, she had realized that she was no longer supreme. It had been a bitter moment, and had left a wound never to be healed. The perfect, classic features, the beautiful blue eyes, the fair waving hair, were all present still. Her tall figure was upright and active, and she had no tendency to grow stout or heavy. She had many reasons for congratulating herself, but the magic halo was gone, and she knew it. Some women never find it out until they are really old, and they suffer less.

At the present moment, as she entered her husband’s office, it would have been hard to believe that Mrs. Lauderdale could be more than five and thirty years of age. The dark coat she wore showed her figure well, and her thin veil separated and hid away the imperfections of what had once been perfect. She was a little agitated, too, and the colour was in her cheeks—a trifle too much of it, perhaps, but softened to the delicacy of a peach blossom by the dark gauze.

She paused a moment as she closed the door behind her, glancing first at her husband, and then looking about the unfamiliar room, to satisfy herself that they were alone.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Emma,” said Alexander Junior, rising definitely and coming to meet her.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “I don’t often come, do I? I know you don’t like to be disturbed. But as this is Saturday, and I knew you would be coming up town early, I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s rather important.”

“I trust nothing bad has happened,” observed Alexander, drawing up a chair for her.

“Bad? Well—I don’t know. Yes—of course it is! It’s serious, at all events. Uncle Robert’s dying. I thought you ought to know—”

“Dying? Uncle Robert?”

Alexander Lauderdale’s metallic voice rang through the room, and his smooth, lean hands grasped the arms of his chair.

An instant later he looked a little nervously at the door, as though hoping that no one had heard his words, nor the tone in which he had spoken them. A dark flush rose in his face and the veins at his temple swelled suddenly, while his grip on the chair seemed to tighten, and he turned his eyes on his wife.

“Dying!” he repeated in a