"
"Mrs. Brandon and Morris! Good Lord! Have you ever heard of a man called
Davray?"
"Yes, a drunken painter, isn't he? Why?"
"I talked to him in the Cathedral this afternoon. He has a grudge against
Brandon too...Well, I'm going up to the study."
He bent over, kissed her forehead tenderly and left the room.
Throughout that evening he was uncomfortable, and when he was
uncomfortable he was a strange being. His impulses, his motives, his
intentions were like a sheaf of corn bound tightly about by his sense of
comfort and well-being. When that sense was disturbed everything fell
apart and he seemed to be facing a new world full of elements that he
always denied. His aunt had a greater power of disturbing him than had any
other human being. He knew that she spoke what she believed to be the
truth; he felt that, in spite of her denials, she knew him. He was often
surprised at the eagerness with which he wanted her approval.
As he sat back in his chair that evening in Bentinck-Major's comfortable
library and watched the other, this sense of discomfort persisted so
strongly that he found it very difficult to let his mind bite into the
discussion.
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