from Switzerland, and of how the
accident to Amaldi's mother had made her so late in returning to Venice,
of how she had found Lady Wychcote there a day before her intended
visit, and of all that she had endured next day when she feared at first
that some dreadful accident had happened to her son--as she told all
this very simply, very movingly in plain, quiet words, the sedate face
of Mr. Surtees grew first discomposed then rather grim.

Sophy ceased. The whispering roar of the heavy English train filled the
silence for a little. Then she said:

"Do you believe me, Mr. Surtees?"

He answered gravely, even solemnly.

"I do believe you, Mrs. Chesney."

At this Sophy broke down, and hiding her face from him cried bitterly.

LVI

It was most distressing to Mr. Surtees to see this tall, dignified woman
collapse into such a bitter abandonment of weeping. He had even a secret
affection for Sophy after his prim fashion. As poor Bobby would have
said, it made him feel "rather sick" to sit there helplessly watching
her. He had an almost irresistible impulse to put his hand on her
shaking shoulder and pat it gently. Only the habit of a decorous legal
lifetime restrained him. He fidgeted nervously with his glasses and the
paper that she had handed back to him, began to mutter such words of
consolation as he could think of.

"My dear lady ... my dear lady.... Compose yourself.... We shall find a
way out.... I have suggestions ... yes, suggestions...."

Sophy reached out one hand to him blindly, her face still hidden. He
took it gingerly but tenderly in both his own. Nature overcame decorum.

"My poor, poor child...." he said shakily.

As a staunch Conservative and member of the church of England, he had
not approved of Sophy's divorce. In theory he was much shocked by the
fact that she should have contemplated a third marriage. Yet, as she
herself told it, her story took quite another aspect in the old lawyer's
mind--seemed, in fact, the most natural and inevitable outcome of
circumstances. The circumstances he still disapproved of, while
sympathising, against his judgment and much to his own astonishment,
with the romance that had resulted from them. And he felt highly
indignant at the course pursued by Lady Wychcote.

When Sophy was calm again, he asked leave to tell her some of the
"suggestions" to which he had referred.

"Tell me first of all how to get my son again," she urged. "What must I
do to get hi