“Dear fellow, one must make all allowance for his disappointment of his first fancy, but there is a want of stability—what I can only call a levity of spirit—that distresses one beyond words. He was all submission and deference, but there was not the spontaneous calling of deep unto deep that one somehow looked for.... And yet Adrian is the one of you all from whom I had hoped for the greatest unreserve, the most ideal companionship....”
Lucilla knew it, had always known it, only too well.
Not one of his other children had been treated with the indulgence that the Canon had always displayed towards his youngest-born.
The Canon’s next words chimed in oddly with her thoughts.
“Perhaps I have condoned too much in Adrian. It is not a strong character—but the strongest are not always the most lovable. He talks now of going to London.”
“So he told me.”
“One can only trust,” said the Canon with a heavy sigh. “I must bid you good-night, dear daughter. It is not right that you should be kept up in this fashion.”
Lucilla was left to seek what repose she might.
The next day at St. Gwenllian was one of constraint.
Adrian was silent in his father’s presence, and full of adamantine resolution in his absence. At meal times, the subjects to be avoided—which now included the Admastons, their theatricals, and the Duffle family, as well as Valeria’s marriage—seemed unduly numerous. In the evening, the Canon made a great and evident effort, that struck Lucilla as infinitely pathetic, to readjust matters.