"You don't like the idea," said his mother.
"Not much. I scarce know why. But I somehow think of him as not having enough sense of the responsibility of life."
"I suppose his people are of the right sort?"
"I suppose they are; though I don't know if he has any people," said he, with a laugh. "He is the kind of man who does not need parents or relations."
"Still, hadn't you better try to find out what he may have in that line?"
"Yes," said Lefevre; "perhaps I had."
Chapter II.
A Mysterious Case.
The two friends returned, as they had arranged, to the Hyacinth Club for dinner. Courtney's coruscating brilliancy sank into almost total darkness when they parted from Lady and Miss Lefevre, and when they sat down to table he was preoccupied and silent, yet in no proper sense downcast or dull. Lefevre noted, while they ate, that there was clear speculation in his eye, that he was not vaguely dreaming, but with alert intelligence examining some question, or facing some contingency; and it was natural he should think that the question or contingency must concern Nora as much as Julius. Yet he made no overture of understanding, for he knew that Courtney seldom offered confidence or desired sympathy; not that he was churlish or reserved, but simply that he was usually sufficient unto himself, both for counsel and for consolation. Lefevre was therefore surprised when he was suddenly asked a question, which was without context in his own thought.
"Have you ever found something happen or appear," said Julius, "that completely upsets your point of view, and tumbles down your scheme of life, like a stick thrust between your legs when you are running?"