And my father! Need I tell you that I worshipped him--that to me he was king of all men?
And as deeply as I loved him, so, in another way, he worshipped my mother.
She was beautiful.

In a curious sort of way I used to wonder, as a child, how it was possible for a woman to be so beautiful.

It was a dark beauty--a recurrence of French strain in her English blood.
"One day I overheard my father tell her that, if she died, he would kill himself.

He was not of the passionate, over-sentimental kind; he was a philosopher, a scientist, calm and self-contained--and I remembered those words later, when I had outgrown childhood, as one of a hundred proofs of how devoutly he had loved her.

It was more than love, I believe.