"I think you may help me. You and he were great friends, pals, Susan Amphlett called you."
"Yes, we were pals. He was so good to me at Disbrowe, years and years ago."
"Yes, I know. He has often talked of that time. Well, you were great friends; and a young man will sometimes open his mind more to a woman friend than he will to his mother. Did Claude ever talk to you of his Church, of his remorse for his neglect of his religion, of his wanting to give up the world, to end a useless life in a monastery?"
"Never."
"I thought not. It is a sudden caprice; there is no real strength of purpose in it. He is disgusted and disappointed. He has made a failure of his life, and he is angry with, himself, and sick to death of Society. Such a man cannot go on being trivial for ever. A life without purpose can but end in disgust. My poor child, you are shivering, and can hardly stand. Let us go nearer the fire. Sit down, and let us talk quietly—and be kind, and bear with a foolish old woman, who sees the joy of her life slipping away from her."
The visitor's quick eye had noticed the great armchair and book-table by the hearth, and knew that it was Vera's place. She led her there, made her sit down, and took a chair by her side.
"Now we shall be warm and comfortable, and can look my trouble in the face."
"Tell me all about it," Vera said quietly, with her hand in Mrs. Rutherford's.
The wave of agitation had passed. She spoke slowly, but her voice was no longer tremulous.