Ralph stared at his father a moment before he too understood. Then he saw the point, and riposted deftly. He shrugged his shoulders ostentatiously as if to shake off responsibility.
“Well, then, that is not my business; I shall give her a gown and five shillings to-morrow, with the other one.”
The extraordinary brutality of the words struck Mary like a whip, but Sir James met it.
“That is for you to settle then,” he said. “Only you need not send her to Overfield or Great Keynes, for she will be sent back here at once.”
Ralph smiled with an air of tolerant incredulity. Sir James rose briskly.
“Come, Mary,” he said, and turned his back abruptly on Ralph, “we must find lodgings for to-night. The good nuns will not have room.”
As Mary looked at his face in the candlelight she was astonished by its decision; there was not the smallest hint of yielding. It was very pale but absolutely determined, and for the last time in her life she noticed how like it was to Ralph’s. The line of the lips was identical, and his eyelids drooped now like his son’s.
Ralph too rose and then on a sudden she saw the resolute obstinacy fade from his eyes and mouth. It was as if the spirit of one man had passed into the other.
“Father—” he said.
She expected a rush of emotion into the old man’s face, but there was not a ripple. He paused a moment, but Ralph was silent.