criticise the least of her actions.

To tell Greif of the suspicions which agitated his own mind was
therefore contrary to Greifenstein's fixed principles, and consequently
utterly impossible. In reply to his questions about his mother's health
the only answer which was at once plausible and in accordance with
truth was the plain statement that Clara denied being ill, but that she
nevertheless appeared to be suffering from some unknown complaint.
Greif was not satisfied, but his own ingenuity could discover no
explanation of the facts, and he was obliged to hold his peace. His
mother's manner and her look when he spoke to her disturbed him. It was
as though her uncertain and careless affection had suddenly developed
into something more true and sincere. There was something wistful in
the fixed gaze of her eyes, as though she feared to know what was in
his heart, and yet longed for some more frank expression of his love
for her than that mere reverential courtesy which he had been taught to
show his mother since he was a child. Being very young and of a very
kind heart, Greif began to wonder whether he had not misunderstood her
throughout many years. He possessed that kind of nature which cannot
long refrain from returning any sort of affection it receives, provided
that affection appears to be genuine. He gradually began to feel a
responsive thrill in his heart when he saw that his mother's sad eyes
watched his movements and lingered upon his face. The tone of his voice
began to change when he addressed her, though he was scarcely conscious
of it. His words became gentler and more sympathetic, as his thoughts
of her assumed a kindlier disposition. He began to reproach himself
with his former coldness, and he frankly owned to himself that he had
misunderstood her.

It had always been his custom to go to his mother's boudoir in the