But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. He felt her observance and warmed to it. She will not confide in me. He is in the care of those who will not leave the task assigned to them—the utter perversion of his principles—half-finished. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. ‘But there is something still I do not understand.
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