“That would be best.”
“Good-by,” Hugh said abruptly.
Stephen held out his hand, and after an instant Hugh clasped it. He turned to his uncle.
Bransby rose stiffly from his chair. He was trembling. Neither seemed able to speak. For a bad moment neither moved. Then Richard Bransby held out—both hands. Hugh flushed, then paled, and took the proffered hands in his. There was pride as well as regret in his gesture, affection even more than protest. Then without a word—a thick sound in his throat was not a syllable—with no other look—he went.
Bransby caught at the back of his chair. He motioned Stephen to follow Hugh. “See that he has money—enough,” he said hoarsely.
Stephen nodded and left him.
Richard Bransby looked about the silent room helplessly. “My poor Helen,” he said presently—“Violet! Violet!”—but he pulled himself together and moved towards the bookcase. Perhaps he could find distraction there.
He sat down again, the volume he had selected on his knee, and opened it at random, turning the pages idly—one hand on the jade joss, that as it lay on the table; seemed to blink in the firelight.
The printed words evaded him. To focus his troubled mind he began to read aloud softly:—
“‘There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turned my head towards the window, thinking of her calm seraphic eyes, he made me start by muttering, as if he were an echo of the morning: “Blind! Blind! Blind!”’”