“Timothy Farleigh wants to see you.”
“Don’t see him, Mother,” entreated Cicely. “You’re not up to it.”
“Not up to it? What an idea! I will see any of my people, or all of them, at any time.”
“He is on my lawn,” said Goodrich. “My privet fence is broken down.”
“Can I see him here, Mr. Goodrich?”
“Certainly, if you insist.”
He went out, carrying a head out of which distressed and congested eyes bulged prominently. When he came back, Timothy accompanied him. Agatha and the softy followed. Nobody noticed them. The parson shut the window. Timothy approached Lady Selina, very erect in her chair.
“What do you want?” she asked quietly.
Timothy confronted her with a dignity quite as impressive, in its way, as hers. The despairing fury had burnt itself out, partly, possibly, because his Mary was mending, partly, also, because it had served its purpose, whether designed or not—it had fired others.
“I want justice.”