Lorraine looked again, with the eyes of a connoisseur, and she knew that in very truth no merely handsome face and form were here, but a nature and character corresponding to the outward beauty of line and lineament. She wondered once more as she lay there what it must be to have borne such a son; and a surging, aching, tearing pain filled her heart for the longing to have known from experience. She felt she could have been a saint among women for very joy, and an ideal companion, as well as a mother to such as he.
And instead?—
Well, there were murky corners in the background for her as well as her mother, but never from actual seeking. When necessity had not driven her, loneliness had, and the gnawing ache of a fine, fearless soul to grasp some satisfaction from the sorry scheme of things. And always the satisfaction had passed so quickly... so quickly, driving the starved soul back on itself again, with a little extra weight added to its burden of bitter knowledge.
Was there then no counterpart for her—no twin soul—no strong, true comrade, to say “You and I” when sorrow and disillusion came, and so rob pain of its deepest sting?
Then, as if he felt her scrutiny, he turned his face to her slowly, and looked into her eyes.
“You know you are looking rather bad,” he said a little awkwardly and shyly. “I’m awfully sorry. I hope you are taking care of yourself.”
“I don’t suppose I should worry much if left to myself,” she told him, with a touch of lightness; “but a very stern physician, and a most resolute maid, insist upon giving me every possible attention.”
“It doesn’t tire you… my being here?…”
“No; I like it.”
“I wonder why?”