"But aren't I?"
"Well, then, remain so. She's a big child, Hugh. She wants a lot of affection, wants it coming her way. You see, I've been with her most: thirty-eight years, with a few intervals. You've lived away from her for over ten years; and even before that you were more with your father than with her. So you don't know Mamma very well."
"Oh, I know her well enough!"
"Perhaps," said Lot, wearily. "Perhaps you know her well enough.... But try to be nice to her, Hugh."
"Of course I will, Lot."
"That's a good chap."
His voice fell, despondently; but his hand grasped his half-brother's hand. Oh, what was the use of insisting? What did that strong, cool lad, with his bold eyes and his laughing, clean-shaven mouth, feel, except that Mamma had money—a hundred thousand guilders—and was going with him to his country? In Hugh's firm hand Lot felt his own fingers as though they were nothing. So thin, so thin: had he wasted away so much in a week?
"Hugh, I wish you'd just give me that hand-glass."
Hugh gave him the mirror.
"Draw the blind a little higher."