CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MASTER OF IRONIES So they stood for some moments, the one with eyes glaring, the other with quiet scrutiny.
"It appears to agree with you here," began the marquis.

There was not the slightest tremor in his voice.
"You ?" said the son.
The marquis winced inwardly: that pronoun was so pregnant with surprise, contempt, anger, and indignation! "Yes, it is I, your paternal parent." "And you could not leave me in peace, even here ?" The son stepped, back and strained his arms across his chest.
"From your tone it would seem so." The marquis sat down.

A fit of trembling had seized his legs.

How the boy had changed in three months! He looked like a god, an Egyptian god, with that darkened skin; and the tilt of the chin recalled the mother.
"I had hoped never to look upon your face again," coldly.
The marquis waved his hand.

"Life is a page of disappointments, with a margin of realized expectations which is narrow indeed.