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rituals. And the old habits and reactions were there too: Clitheridge’s reliance on quoting predictable Scriptures, Eulalia’s stepping in for him. Something in her was wakened to a sharper life by Shaw’s personality, and it both pleased and disturbed her. Duty won. Perhaps duty always won.
    From Shaw’s tight body and restless movements none of it reached more than a surface, intellectual humor in him. The ache underneath he would bear utterly alone—unless Lindsay had some frank expression that could bridge the gulf.
    Pitt stepped back out of the center of the floor and stood next to the patterned curtains, watching. He glanced at Murdo to make sure he did the same.
    “Are you going to remain here with Mr. Lindsay?” Eulaliainquired solicitously of Shaw. “I assure you, you would be most welcome at the parsonage, if you wish. And you could remain as long as suited you—until … er, of course you will purchase another house—”
    “Not yet, my dear, not yet,” Clitheridge said in a loud whisper. “First we must, er, organize—deal with the—er, spiritual—”
    “Nonsense!” she hissed back at him. “The poor man has to sleep somewhere. One cannot deal with emotions until one has accommodated the creature.”
    “It is the other way ’round, Lally!” He was getting cross. “Please allow me—”
    “Thank you.” Shaw interrupted, swinging around from the small table where he had been fingering an ornament. “I shall remain with Amos. But I am sensible of your kindness—and you are perfectly correct, Eulalia, as always. One can grieve far more adequately in some physical comfort. There is no advantage whatsoever in having to worry about where to sleep or what to eat.”
    Clitheridge bridled, but offered no demur; the opposition was far too much for him.
    He was saved from further argument by the manservant’s reappearance to announce yet more callers.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, sir.” There was no question as to whether they should be received. Pitt was curious.
    “Of course.” Lindsay nodded.
    The couple who were admitted a moment later were soberly, even starkly dressed, she in total black, he in a winged collar, black tie and high-buttoned suit of indeterminate dark shade. His face was composed in extreme gravity, tight-lipped, pale, and his eyes brilliant with contained emotion. It was a countenance that caught Pitt’s attention with its intensity as passionate as Shaw’s, and yet by every innate inclination different—guarded and inward of thought where Shaw was rash and quickly expressive; abstemious and melancholy where Shaw was full of vitality and a wild humor; and yet the possibilities of depth were the same, the power of emotion.
    But it was Mrs. Hatch who came forward first, ignoring everyone else and going straight to Shaw, which seemed to be what he expected. He put both arms around her and held her.
    “My dear Prudence.”
    “Oh, Stephen, this is quite dreadful.” She accepted his embrace without hesitation. “How can it have happened? I was sure Clemency was in London with the Bosinneys. At least thank God you were not there!”
    Shaw said nothing. For once he had no answer.
    There was an uncomfortable silence as if others who felt the emotions less deeply were embarrassed by their exclusion and would rather not have witnessed them.
    “Mrs. Shaw’s sister,” Murdo whispered, leaning closer to Pitt. “Both ladies are daughters of the late Theophilus Worlingham.”
    Pitt had never heard of Theophilus Worlingham, but apparently he was a person of some repute from the awe in Murdo’s voice.
    Josiah Hatch cleared his throat to draw the episode to a conclusion. Proprieties must be observed, and he had become aware of the shadowy figures of Pitt and Murdo in the unlit corner of the room, not part of the event, and yet intrusively present.
    “We must comfort ourselves with faith,” he continued. He looked sideways at Clitheridge. “I am sure the vicar has already spoken