“Théophile Gautier,” said Jim’s mother.
“Yes, Gautier. Those were great days.”
Cheriton slowly uncrossed his lavender trousers, and rose with a little sigh. He closed the lid of the rosewood piano reverently.
“He was such a gentle fellow,” he said quaintly. “Such a gentle fellow.”
The eyes of Jim’s mother looked strangely bright.
“And the Dudevant?” said she, in a soft tone. “Was she—was she an ogress?”
“No; merely a child of nature. They were all children of nature. That man had a soul.”
It struck all, with the exception of Miss Perry, as quite odd that the old exquisite should replace very carefully the music-stool under the little rosewood piano. There was something incongruous about the action.
“He was such a gentle fellow,” he said.
When Cheriton turned his tall and corseted form away from the piano, Jim’s mother observed that his eyes looked curiously hollow and faded, and that, for all their carmine, his cheeks looked old and worn. He took Jim by the arm in his paternal manner.