Chapter 11


When Edward got home his mother was asleep in the armchair. Her whole
person rose and fell like a tropical sea. Her shut eyes were like those
of a statue, behind the lids of which one knows there are no pupils.
Her eyebrows were slightly raised, as if in expostulation at being
obliged to breathe. Her figure expressed the dignity of old age, which
may or may not be due to rheumatism.

Edward, as he looked at her, felt as one does who has been reading a
fairy-tale and is called to the family meal. All the things he had
meant to say, that had seemed so eloquent, now seemed foolish. He awoke
her hastily in case his courage should fail before that most adamantine
thing--an unsympathetic atmosphere.

'I've got some news for you, mother.'

'Nothing unpleasant, dear?'

'No, Pleasant. It makes me very happy.'

'The good are always happy,' replied Mrs. Marston securely.

Before the bland passivity of this remark it seemed that irony itself
must soften.