"Ah, Lot!... Why, what's the matter, my boy?"
"Nothing, Mummy, nothing...."
"Why are you looking so sad? Have you been crying?"
"No, Mummy, no.... Nerves a bit unstrung, that's all.... Hullo, Hugh! That's a thing you don't suffer from, slack nerves, eh, old chap? No, I don't expect you ever cry like an old woman, as I do...."
Lot mastered himself, but his eyes were full of sorrow; they looked at his mother and his brother.... His mother did not care about dress; and he was struck by the fact that she had had a short tailor-made skirt built for her in London and a little simple, black-cloth coat that was moulded to her still young and slender figure, while her hat displayed a more youthful curve than he was accustomed to see on her pretty, grey-blond curly hair. She was sixty years of age! But she was all smiles; her smooth, round face, scored by scarce a wrinkle, was bright and cheerful; and—oh, he knew his mother so well!—he could see that she was happy. That was how she looked when she was happy, with that blue innocence in her eyes.... She was an old woman, she was sixty; but, when she now entered beside her English son, she was of no age, because of a happiness that owed nothing to real maternal feeling, a happiness due only to a little affection which her English son bestowed upon her in words of flattery and caresses. He said coaxing things to her, roughly; he fondled her, roughly; and she was happy, she brightened under a new happiness. Lot she did not miss: he no longer existed for her ... at the moment. She was simply radiant because she had Hugh by her side. And Lot, as he saw the two of them, felt a pang pierce his soul.... Poor Mamma! He had always been fond of his mother and he thought her so nice and such fun; and, thanks to his natural gentleness and tact, they had always got on well together. He knew that she was fond of him too, even though he was out of her mind for the moment. She had always loved Hugh best, of her five children. She had always loved Trevelley best, of her three husbands.... Poor, poor Mamma, thought Lot. She had her bit of money now: what was a hundred thousand guilders, if it was not properly looked after? What was a hundred thousand ... to Hugh? And, when that hundred thousand was finished—in ... in a couple of years, perhaps—what would poor Mamma do then? For then his handsome English brother, with the bold eyes and the shaven upper-lip, would not stay with poor Mamma.... And what would her old age be like then? Poor, poor Mamma!...
"You're extraordinarily like Mamma, Lot," said Hugh.
Yes, he was like his mother: he too was short, had very nearly her eyes, had very nearly her pretty hair, had the moulding of her young face.... He had been vain sometimes of his appearance in his youth, when he knew that he was a good-looking, fair-haired little chap. But he was vain no longer; and, beside Hugh, he felt an old woman, a slack-nerved old woman.... To be so tall, so broad-shouldered, so bold-eyed, with such a smiling-selfish mouth, such a cold heart, such calm, steel muscles and especially nerves; to care for nothing but your own comfort and victorious progress; to be able to live quietly on your mother's money and, when that was finished, calmly and quietly to throw your mother overboard and go your own way: that was the real sign of a strong attitude towards life! That meant keeping the world and your emotions under your thumb! That meant having no fear of what was coming or of approaching old age! That meant knowing nothing of nervous dread and never blubbering like an old woman, a slack-nerved old woman!
"Yes, Hugh, I'm like Mamma."
"And Elly's ... like you," said Hugh.
"And, in a very ugly edition, like Mamma: at least, so people say, Mummy," said Elly, softly.