Five minutes later Marcus White was ushered into a handsome room on the first floor, and at the same time Aldwyth entered by another doorway. The manifest and immediate effect produced in him by her appearance bewildered her. The dark-skinned face of the visitor paled, his eyes narrowed, and gazing at her face intently, he grasped the back of a chair as if for support. They stood and gazed in silence. Then, mastering his emotion, White spoke, as if by way of explanation: “It was some resemblance,” he said; “I was hardly prepared, and it startled me.” “You mean a resemblance to my father?” “No, to your mother.” “You knew my mother?” She looked at him, wonderingly. There was something in his face and bearing which made her look and look again. Lately she had been reading the life-history of Balzac, and fragmentary accounts of his appearance, and also of that of Armand de Montriveau--in whom the great romancist reproduced some of his own characteristics--came swiftly to her mind, as she watched the face of Marcus White. “He seemed to have reached some crisis in his life, but all took place within his own breast, and he confided nothing to the world without.... He was of medium height, broad in the chest, and muscular as a lion. When he walked, his carriage, his step, his least gesture, bespoke a consciousness of power which was imposing; there was something even despotic about it.” Then, again, another passage: “The black hair, shining and radiant, receding from the temple in bright waves ... the eyes steeped in a golden penumbra with tawny eyeballs ... send out a glance of astonishing acuteness.” “You knew my mother?” she repeated quietly. The question was not answered. White had turned his eyes towards the window and seemed to be gazing at a distant sail. “Of course you expected to see my father,” Aldwyth began, after an awkward pause. “I am sorry it is impossible. But if there is anything that I can tell him----” He turned his eyes upon her swiftly. “Miss Westwood, there are some things that must be discussed between men alone.” “My father is ill. So, unfortunately----” “Is he really ill?” “I don’t understand you,” she said stiffly. “I beg your pardon, but, as I daresay you know, there are such things as legal fictions, political fictions, illnesses of expediency.” “Is it on political business that you are here?” “In a sense, yes.” “The doctor has given the most positive orders that my father is to have complete rest from every sort of worry and anxiety.” “Desirable, but impossible. Then he does not know that I am here?” “No,” coldly. “I should say that there is only one way in which your father can make sure of carrying out the doctor’s orders.” She looked at him with gathering resentment, but he continued calmly: “He would do well to throw up the appointment he holds under the Crown”--she listened, amazed; but she was obliged to listen--” and resign his seat in Parliament.” Her face flushed angrily.