He stopped short as he saw her, and coming up to her, put his hand on her white shoulder.
"Writing, mother?" he said.
The countess folded her letter.
"Yes. Where are you going?"
He pointed to the Louis Quatorze clock that ticked solemnly on a bracket.
"Ten o'clock, mother," he said, with a smile.
"Oh, yes; I see," she assented.
He stood for a moment looking down at her with all a young man's filial pride in a mother's beauty, and, bending down, touched her cheek with his lips, then passed out.
The countess looked after him with softened eyes.
"Who could help loving him?" she murmured.