He was addicted to the use of
modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own.
"Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little," answered the
lady.
"Nor I. It will not last."
"Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds."
"Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least LOOK as if they were going
to last. The full-blown roses do not."
Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between
them. She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time
that was no more. The man seemed to be content that the past had
been lived through and would never renew itself.
"After all," she said, "she is my sister's child. The sympathy may
only be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once.
Was I? You can tell me."
She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew
that she was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell
her; and he did not like it.
"No," he answered readily.
"And what was the difference?"
She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned
demureness.
"Their name is legion, for they are many."
"Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?"
He smiled--a wise, old, woman-searching smile.
"You were better-looking than that," he said, with a glance beneath
his lashless lids.
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