"Not an atom of consideration for me—eh? In the hopeless struggle I make to live up to the traditions of my race?" Henry could always work himself up into a great burst of self-pity.
"Jim is an anarchist in his talk, but an angel at heart. He always ends by doing the right thing."
This defence of Jim caused Henry to stop in his walk. That his mother should advocate the goodness of Jim was a new victory for his cousin.
"Jim likes to play the saint, confound him," he barked, "but waking or sleeping, he never takes off his halo."
Lady Elizabeth crossed to him. "He says he has no desire to marry at present."
"That's the sickly sentimental pose of the man who loves a woman beyond his reach," Henry answered.
Like a flame of illumination the innuendo of his words brought their meaning to Lady Elizabeth. She remembered so much and yet so little in Jim's actions of late, but all tended towards a horrible suspicion. She could still see Jim's face as he watched Diana earlier in the evening. It was not the face of a lover in the usual sense. It was a face glorified by an unconscious devotion to a great ideal. All she could stammer was:
"You mean—"
But Henry, who had blurted out in a heat of temper more than he felt he had reason for, tried to ignore the question and the look of sudden bewilderment in her eyes. He moved restlessly in his chair as he said:
"Never mind, mother; it doesn't matter."