Jim’s mother started perceptibly.
“I was thinking,” she said—“I was thinking about my son.”
“I had guessed it.”
“Really!”
“Yes, you looked so maternal. In the true sense, of course. There was such a spirituality in your eyes, if I may so express myself.”
“I am so anxious about his future,” said she, removing her cigarette from her lips with simplicity and with solicitude. As she did this, Cheriton took occasion to observe that her eyes were gray. Strictly speaking, her face did not obey the regular canons of beauty. Her features were a little haphazard. But it was a face admirable alike for sense and for animation. Cheriton, who plumed himself upon being something of a connoisseur of the human countenance, felt that there was a great deal in it.
“Why anxious?” said he. “His future can take care of itself.”
“I will tell you something, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother, with great earnestness, “if I may.”
“I am overwhelmed with honor.”
“There is a wretched girl.” There was a look of dismay in eyes that were admirably gray and solicitous.