“It will be as Jon wishes.”
“This house,” said Soames suddenly: “I had hopes when I began it. If they live in it—their children! They say there's such a thing as Nemesis. Do you believe in it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! You do!”
He had come back from the window, and was standing close to her, who, in the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed.
“I'm not likely to see you again,” he said slowly. “Will you shake hands”—his lip quivered, the words came out jerkily—“and let the past die.” He held out his hand. Her pale face grew paler, her eyes so dark, rested immovably on his, her hands remained clasped in front of her. He heard a sound and turned. That boy was standing in the opening of the curtains. Very queer he looked, hardly recognisable as the young fellow he had seen in the Gallery off Cork Street—very queer; much older, no youth in the face at all—haggard, rigid, his hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head. Soames made an effort, and said with a lift of his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer:
“Well, young man! I'm here for my daughter; it rests with you, it seems—this matter. Your mother leaves it in your hands.”
The boy continued staring at his mother's face, and made no answer.
“For my daughter's sake I've brought myself to come,” said Soames. “What am I to say to her when I go back?”
Still looking at his mother, the boy said, quietly: