"Quite."
He drew a chair near to Mrs. Browning and sat down, holding still the hand which he had taken a second time.
She was dearly beloved by all her children, and by none more than by Nigel; so dearly that they could scarcely see a fault in her. The exacting nature of her love for them, above all for her only son, did imply a fault somewhere, only they could not see it. If Nigel saw, he would not acknowledge the fact to others; and if Fulvia saw, she would not acknowledge it even to herself. At least, she had not done so hitherto.
"It was mother!" they all said. And "mother" had ever been in that household the embodiment of all that was lovely and lovable. If something of delusion existed, the very delusion was beautiful. And if Mrs. Browning had her faults—as who has not?—she was the best of wives, the most devoted of mothers, the fairest and sweetest of women. Nobody could see her and not admire; nobody could know her and not love.
There was a curious constraint upon them all this evening; not least upon Nigel, and this perplexed Fulvia. Mrs. Browning's look she understood well; too well! Had any one except Nigel been in question, Fulvia would have been the first to spring up in defence of the "madre's" sensitiveness. The grieved curve of those gentle lips made her very heart ache; and in her heart Fulvia counted that Nigel had done wrongly, for it was a household axiom, without an allowed exception, that nobody might ever do or say aught which should distress the beloved "madre." But how could she blame him just returned from a long year of absence?
She could not make out Nigel's look. He did not appear to be touched, as she would have expected, by Mrs. Browning's manner. He hardly seemed to be aware that he had caused displeasure; if displeasure is the right word. The dark eyes had, indeed, trouble in them, but also they told of thoughts far away. She and Daisy made conversation, Nigel responding with forced attention; and presently that too faded. Fulvia could almost have believed that he had forgotten his present position, so still was the manner, so absorbed the downcast gaze. Mrs. Browning drew her hand away, and the movement was not noticed.
"What are you dreaming about?" Daisy burst out at length, bringing Nigel back, with something of a start, to the consciousness of his immediate surroundings. "What are you thinking of?"
"Perhaps your first word was the more correct—dreaming, not thinking. Don't things seem rather like a dream to you this evening?"
"No, they don't. It's all sober reality. And you are your substantial self; not half so much of a wraith as when you went away. Is he, Fulvia? There!—" with a mischievous pinch of his arm—"that's the proper test. It's genuine, you see. If you can make yourself wince, you may be quite sure you're not dreaming. I've tried to pinch myself in a dream, and it doesn't hurt. Do you know, you're most wonderfully altered, Nigel—bigger and broader, and as brown as a berry. And actually growing a moustache! And I think you are going to be handsome."
"Daisy, if you take to personalities, I shall have to give you a lesson."