full-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and women of his own
race--inartistic daubs, that were yet horribly lifelike in the
semi-illumination; the uncurtained mullioned windows,--all formed a
background for the central figure in his thoughts; the slender womanly
form in the armchair; the little brown head supported on the white
hand; the delicate face, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet so
lovely still.

"John," said Lady Mary, in a voice from which all passion and strength
had died away, "tell me what I ought to do."

"Remain with your husband."

"And let my boy go?" said Lady Mary, weeping. "I had thought, when
he was leaving me, perhaps for ever, that--that his heart would be
touched--that I should get a glimpse once more of the Peter he used to
be. Oh, can't you understand? He--he's a little--hard and cold to me
sometimes--God forgive me for saying so!--but you--you've been a young
man too."

"Yes," John said, rather sadly, "I've been young too."

"It's only his age, you know," she said. "He couldn't always be as
gentle and loving as when he was a child. A young man would think that
so babyish. He wants, as he says, to be independent, and not tied to a
woman's apron-string. But in his heart of hearts he loves me best in
the whole world, and he wouldn't have been ashamed to let me see it
at such a moment. And I should have had a precious memory of him for
ever. You shake your head. Don't you understand me? I thought you
seemed to understand," she said wistfully.