She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking out across the lawn to where the sunset sparkled red through the trees. Laurence was sitting on the steps near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick black cigar. He glanced up. Mary's look of weariness and sadness startled him.
She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to realize that the Judge was dying, and needed what Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had begun to talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon meet; the Judge did not resent it, he was a little frightened, and only clung the closer to the firm hand stretched out to him. Yes, he needed Hilary—to no one else could he confess that he was afraid of death, that he had lived a careless life, that he didn't want to believe in immortality but sometimes couldn't help it.... But, Mary thought, it was no use to try to explain to Laurence.
He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A quick impulse of alarm and affection made him repentant. He moved closer to her, put his hand on hers.
"Mary, you're not looking well—I'm afraid you're doing too much. Are you very tired?"
"Yes, a little," she said vaguely, without responding to him, her eyes still fixed on the swaying trees and the red glow beyond.
Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit his cigar. At that moment he felt acutely that she was far away from him in spirit. He did not know her thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He had given up asking her. It seemed to him often that it was only the material part of her life that he had any connection with—that she willed it so. But she had another life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him—a life of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, his face dark and brooding. Laurence could look evil. His narrow blue eyes, half-closed, were menacing. His heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the cigar, spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not be repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would destroy if it could not build. Now he looked destructive.
He had changed much in these few years, grown heavier in body from his indoor life, grown handsomer. He still had his military erectness of carriage, something of the soldier remained in his alertness of movement and speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone. Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his face—and there were lines of pain too, visible at times like this.
The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had been taking his constitutional late, because of the heat, supported by his gold-headed cane and Nora's arm. They were laughing as they approached.
"She's been telling me some of her Irish stories," called out the old man tremulously. "Never was so amused in my life. She's a smart girl, Nora is—and a pretty girl too! Isn't she now?"