His face fell forward on the open pages of the book where he had been reading drearily enough some mournful lines that seemed to fit his mood:
"Glitters the dew and shines the river,
Up comes the lily and dries her bell,
But two are walking apart forever,
And wave their hands for a mute farewell."
A light touch fell on the bowed head whose raven locks were threaded with silver that grief, not time, had blanched. He glanced up, startled, into his mother's wistful face.
"Well?" he said, with a slight contraction of his straight, dark brows.
There was a strange, repressed emotion in her face as she answered:
"It is not well, St. Leon. You are unnerved, troubled, thoughtful even beyond your wont. Will you forgive me for asking why?"
The dark, inscrutable eyes looked at her gravely.
"I might turn your deeds upon yourself," he said. "Why did you faint in the garden at Belle Vue to-day?"
She flushed, and then grew very pale again.
"I will tell you the truth," she said, "or a part of it at least. I was unnerved and startled by the terrible resemblance of the beautiful Mrs. Lynn to—"