‘So, my own mother, and loving me as she does, blames me!’ Nesta sighed; she took a sharp breath. ‘You? do you blame me too?’
He pressed her hand, enamoured of her instantaneous divination and heavenly candour.
But he was admonished, that to speak high approval would not be honourable advantage taken of the rival condemning; and he said: ‘Blame? Some think it is not always the right thing to do the right thing. I’ve made mistakes, with no bad design. A good mother’s view is not often wrong.’
‘You pressed my hand,’ she murmured.
That certainly had said more.
‘Glad to again,’ he responded. It was uttered airily and was meant to be as lightly done.
Nesta did not draw back her hand. ‘I feel strong when you press it.’ Her voice wavered, and as when we hear a flask sing thin at the filling, ceased upon evidence of a heart surcharged. How was he to relax the pressure!—he had to give her the strength she craved: and he vowed it should be but for half a minute, half a minute longer.
Her tears fell; she eyed him steadily; she had the look of sunlight in shower.
‘Oldish men are the best friends for you, I suppose,’ he said; and her gaze turned elusive phrases to vapour.
He was compelled to see the fiery core of the raincloud lighting it for a revealment, that allowed as little as it retained of a shadow of obscurity.