Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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