“Life is so complicated; so few of the consequences of many actions of the greatest moment can be foreseen, that the belief in the lot is not unnatural.”
“You have some books, I see—Sir Thomas Browne.” He took down the volume.
“Leighton! Leighton! how odd! Was it Richard Leighton?”
“Yes.”
“Really; and you knew him?”
“He was a friend of my brother.”
“Do you know what has become of him? He was at Cambridge with me, but was younger.”
“I have not seen him for some time. Do you mind if I open the window a little?”
“Certainly not.”
She stood at the window for a moment, looking out on the garden, with her hand on the top of the sash. The Doctor had turned his chair a little and his eyes were fixed on her there with her uplifted arm. A picture which belonged to his father instantly came back to him. He recollected it so well. It represented a woman watching a young man in a courtyard who is just mounting his horse. We are every now and then reminded of pictures by a group, an attitude, or the arrangement of a landscape which, thereby, acquires a new charm.