That Jerome Otway should be buried as a son of the Church, to which he had never belonged, was a ground of indignation, but neither in this could any effective protest be made.
Mute in his sorrow, Piers marvelled with a young man's freshness of feeling at the forms and insincerities which rule the world.

He had a miserable sense of his helplessness amid forces which he despised.
On the day of the inquest arrived Daniel Otway, Piers having telegraphed to the club where he had seen his brother three years ago.
Before leaving London, Daniel had provided himself with solemn black, of the latest cut; Hawes people remarked him with curiosity, saying what a gentleman he looked, but whispering at the same time rumours and doubts; for the little town had long gossiped about Jerome, a man not much to its mind.

A day later came Alexander.

With him there had been no means of communicating, and a newspaper paragraph informed him of his father's death.

Appearing in rough tweeds, with a felt hat, he inspired more curiosity than respect.