Mrs Darwen sighed. "The inward passions are sometimes the voice of God, and sometimes the voice of the Devil," she said.
"There you are! and how are you to distinguish? Tennyson tells us that 'doubt is devil-born,' and certainly constant doubt and hesitation play the devil with a man's mind and body. My theory is 'never analyse an impulse. Act on it with the best conjunction of your reason.' Here's old Carstairs, analysing, theorizing, vacillating, hesitating as to whether he's in love or not."
Mrs Darwen stood up. "It's hard to say which is best," she said. "You're like, and yet very unlike, your father, Charlie." She went over to a small table and picked up a large album. "Have you ever seen Charlie's father, Mr Carstairs?"
"No, I don't think I have." He took the volume on his knees, and she leaned over his shoulder as he turned the pages.
Darwen swung round again on his stool and played low, soft music on the piano.
"There! That's me when I was a girl," she said, arresting Carstairs' hand.
He looked closely and intently at a full length portrait of a remarkably handsome and well built girl, dressed in a riding habit, sitting on a saddle. The features were clear-cut and regular, nothing harsh and nothing coarse; the mouth was firm, and the eyes bold and defiant. It seemed the portrait of a happy, rollicking tom-boy. The resemblance to the woman at his side seemed rather faint.
"You were beautiful," he said, "that's the type I admire."
"Ah! well, perhaps not a beauty, but I was usually considered good looking."
On the opposite page was a tall man, handsome, big-nosed, but he seemed deficient in chin.