"My son, then," she ventured to ask, "my son has great--what you would
call great powers?"
"To my sense, very great powers."
Poor Mrs. Hudson actually smiled, broadly, gleefully, and glanced at
Miss Garland, as if to invite her to do likewise. But the young girl's
face remained serious, like the eastern sky when the opposite sunset is
too feeble to make it glow. "Do you really know?" she asked, looking at
Rowland.
"One cannot know in such a matter save after proof, and proof takes
time. But one can believe."
"And you believe?"
"I believe."
But even then Miss Garland vouchsafed no smile. Her face became graver
than ever.
"Well, well," said Mrs. Hudson, "we must hope that it is all for the
best."
Mr. Striker eyed his old friend for a moment with a look of some
displeasure; he saw that this was but a cunning feminine imitation of
resignation, and that, through some untraceable process of transition,
she was now taking more comfort in the opinions of this insinuating
stranger than in his own tough dogmas. He rose to his feet,
without pulling down his waistcoat, but with a wrinkled grin at the
inconsistency of women.
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