"It's quite as I say," he insisted; "you should have locked it BEFORE, don't you know?
It grinned at me there with all its charming brasses, and what was I to do?
Darling mummy, I COULDN'T start--that was the truth.

I thought I should find something--I had noticed; and I do hope you'll let me keep it, because if you don't it's all up with me.

I stopped over on purpose--on purpose, I mean, to tell you what I've done.
Don't you call that a sense of honour?
And now you only stand and glower at me." Mrs.Brookenham was, in her forty-first year, still charmingly pretty, and the nearest approach she made at this moment to meeting her son's description of her was by looking beautifully desperate.

She had about her the pure light of youth--would always have it; her head, her figure, her flexibility, her flickering colour, her lovely silly eyes, her natural quavering tone, all played together toward this effect by some trick that had never yet been exposed.

It was at the same time remarkable that--at least in the bosom of her family--she rarely wore an appearance of gaiety less qualified than at the present juncture; she suggested for the most part the luxury, the novelty of woe, the excitement of strange sorrows and the cultivation of fine indifferences.
This was her special sign--an innocence dimly tragic.