“Oh, he will be all right again in time, Sir Geoffry,” was the doctor’s reply, as he began to fold his letter.
“He is a pretty boy, too, very. His eyes are strangely like some one’s I have seen, but for the life of me I cannot tell whose!”
“Really?—do you mean it?” cried Mr. Duffham, speaking, as it seemed, in some surprise.
“Mean what?”
“That you cannot tell.”
“Indeed I can’t. They puzzled me all the while I was there. Do you know? Say, if you do.”
“They are like your own, Sir Geoffry.”
“Like my own!”
“They are your own eyes over again. And yours—as poor Layne used to say, and as the picture in the Grange dining-room shows us also, for the matter of that—are Sir Peter’s. Sir Peter’s, yours, and the child’s: they are all the same.”
For a long space of time, as it seemed, the two gentlemen gazed at each other. Mr. Duffham with a questioning and still surprised look: Sir Geoffry in a kind of bewildered amazement.