He escaped for a minute to his room, washed his hands, brushed his hair, and was down again, and taking the head of his own table.
It was pleasant to have him there--a welcome change from Hartledon's recent monotony; and even Maude, with her boasted dislike, felt prejudice melting away.

Boasted dislike, not real, it had been.

None could dislike Percival.

He was not Edward, and it was him Maude had loved.

Percival she never would love, but she might learn to like him.