"If you like--why not? But no leading up the Cimone della Pala for ME!"

She knew what he meant by that. No romance. How splendidly he had
led that day! She had almost worshipped him. What blindness! What
distortion! Was it really the same man standing there with those bright,
doubting eyes, with grey already in his hair? Yes, romance was over! And
she sat silent, looking out into the street--that little old street into
which she looked day and night. A figure passed out there, came to the
door, and rang.

She said softly: "Here is Mark Lennan!"

She felt her husband's eyes rest on her just for a moment, knew that he
had turned, heard him murmur: "Ah, the angel clown!" And, quite still,
she waited for the door to open. There was the boy, with his blessed
dark head, and his shy, gentle gravity, and his essay in his hand.

"Well, Lennan, and how's old Noll? Hypocrite of genius, eh? Draw up;
let's get him over!"

Motionless, from her seat at the window, she watched those two figures
at the table--the boy reading in his queer, velvety bass voice; her
husband leaning back with the tips of his fingers pressed together, his
head a little on one side, and that faint, satiric smile which never
reached his eyes. Yes, he was dozing, falling asleep; and the boy, not
seeing, was going on. Then he came to the end and glanced up. What eyes
he had! Other boys would have laughed; but he looked almost sorry. She
heard him murmur: "I'm awfully sorry, sir."