Olivier Dalibard, always careful, if simple, in his dress, with his brow of grave intellectual power, and his mien imposing, not only from its calm, but from that nameless refinement which rarely fails to give to the student the air of a gentleman,--Olivier Dalibard he might dread, he might even detest; but he was not ashamed of him.
"I said I would visit you, sir, if you would permit me," said Gabriel, in a tone of respect, not unmingled with some defiance, as if in doubt of his reception.
The father's slow full eye, so different from the sidelong, furtive glance of Lucretia, turned on the son, as if to penetrate his very heart.
"You look pale and haggard, child; you are fast losing your health and beauty.

Good gifts these, not to be wasted before they can be duly employed.

But you have taken your choice.

Be an artist,--copy Tom Varney, and prosper." Gabriel remained silent, with his eyes on the floor.
"You come in time for my farewell," resumed Dalibard.

"It is a comfort, at least, that I leave your youth so honourably protected.