Mellor church might almost be regarded as the Boyces' private chapel, so bound up was it with the family and the house.

He realised painfully that he ought to be gone--yet could not tear himself away.

Her passionate willingness to spend herself for the place and people she had made her own at first sight, checked every now and then by a proud and sore reserve--it was too pretty, too sad.

It stung and spurred him as he watched her; one moment his foot moved for departure, the next he was resolving that somehow or other he must make speech with her--excuse--explain.
Ridiculous! How was it possible that he should do either! He had met her--perhaps had tried to meet her--tolerably often since their first chance encounter weeks ago in the vicarage drawing-room.

All through there had been on his side the uncomfortable knowledge of his grandfather's antipathy to Richard Boyce, and of the social steps to which that antipathy would inevitably lead.