And she drew a rapid sketch of the youth's career and the mother's devotion.
George listened in silence. What she said showed him that in his conversations with Ancoats that young man had been talking round and about his own case a good deal! and when she paused he said drily:
"Poor Mrs. Allison! But, you know, there must be some crumples in the rose-leaves of the great."
She looked at him with a momentary astonishment.
"Why should one think of her as 'great'? Would not any mother suffer? First of all he is so changed; it is so difficult to get at him—his friends are so unlike hers—he is so wrapped up in London, so apathetic about his estate. All the religious sympathy that meant so much to her is gone. And now he threatens her with this—what shall I call it?"—her lip curled—"this entanglement. If it goes on, how shall we keep her from breaking her heart over it? Poor thing! poor mothers!"
She raised her white hand, and let it fall upon her knee with one of the free, instinctive gestures that made her beauty so expressive.
But George would not yield himself to her feeling.
"Ancoats will get through it—somehow—as other men do," he said stubbornly, "and she must get through it too—and not break her heart."
Marcella was silent. He turned towards her after a moment.
"You think that a brutal doctrine? But if you'll let me say it, life and ease and good temper are really not the brittle things women make them! Why do they put all their treasure into that one bag they call their affections? There is plenty else in life—there is indeed! It shows poverty of mind!"