“Beautiful! Beautiful! It’s the most beautiful thing in the world to me! Why, it’s my own mother, Mr. Gregg!”
“You—your own mother! What’s your name?”
“Philip Colton.”
VII
The same poise that restrained Adam Gregg when he came suddenly upon Olivia’s portrait in the auction-room sustained him when he looked into the eyes of the young man whom, years before, he had left as a child at Derwood Manor.
“Are you sure?” he asked. He knew he was—he only wanted some fresh light on the dark record. For years the book had been sealed.
“Am I sure? Why it used to be in the garret till my father died, and then my mother brought it down into her room. I have seen her sit before it for hours—she loved it. And once I found her kissing it. Strange, isn’t it, how a woman will regret her youth?—and yet I always thought my mother beautiful even when her hair turned gray.”
Gregg turned his head and tightened his fingers. For an instant he feared his tears would unman him.