had flitted through his mind, nor indeed had ideas of any description
occurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning abstraction; all that he
felt was a mystical pleasure in watching the sunset, and a conviction
that, if he were not with Venetia, that which he loved next best, was
to be alone.

The little Cadurcis in general returned home moody and silent, and
his mother too often, irritated by his demeanour, indulged in all the
expressions of a quick and offended temper; but since his intimacy
with the Herberts, Plantagenet had learnt to control his emotions,
and often successfully laboured to prevent those scenes of domestic
recrimination once so painfully frequent. There often, too, was a note
from Lady Annabel to Mrs. Cadurcis, or some other slight memorial,
borne by her son, which enlisted all the kind feelings of that lady in
favour of her Cherbury friends, and then the evening was sure to pass
over in peace; and, when Plantagenet was not thus armed, he exerted
himself to be cordial; and so, on the whole, with some skill in
management, and some trials of temper, the mother and child contrived
to live together with far greater comfort than they had of old.

Bedtime was always a great relief to Plantagenet, for it secured
him solitude. He would lie awake for hours, indulging in sweet and
unconscious reveries, and brooding over the future morn, that always
brought happiness. All that he used to sigh for, was to be Lady
Annabel's son; were he Venetia's brother, then he was sure he never
should be for a moment unhappy; that parting from Cherbury, and the
gloomy evenings at Cadurcis, would then be avoided. In such a mood,
and lying awake upon his pillow, he sought refuge from the painful
reality that surrounded him in the creative solace of his imagination.
Alone, in his little bed, Cadurcis was Venetia's brother, and he