In her upright seat she was now beginning--not to chafe, for such a thing would have been below her--but rather to feel her sense of right and duty (as owing to herself) becoming more and more grievous to her the longer she was kept waiting. She had learned long ago that she could not govern her son as absolutely as she was wont to rule his father; and having a clearer perception of her own will than of large principles, whenever she found him immovable, she set the cause down as prejudice. Yet by feeling her way among these prejudices carefully, and working filial duty hard, and flying as a last resort to the stronghold of her many years, she pretty nearly always managed to get her own way in everything. But few of those who pride themselves on their knowledge of the human face would have perceived in this lady’s features any shape of steadfast will. Perhaps the expression had passed away, while the substance settled inwards: but however that may have been, her face was pleasant, calm, and gentle. Her manner also to all around her was courteous, kind, and unpretending; and people believed her to have no fault, until they began to deal with her. Her eyes, not overhung with lid, but delicately set and shaped, were still bright, and of a pale-blue tint; her forehead was not remarkably large, but straight, and of beautiful outline; while the filaments of fine wrinkles took, in some lights, a cast of silver from snowy silkiness of hair. For still she had abundant hair, that crown of glory to old age; and, like a young girl, she still took pleasure in having it drawn through the hands, and done wisely, and tired to the utmost vantage. Sir Roland came into his mother’s room with his usual care and diligence. She with ancient courtesy rose from her straight-backed chair, and offered him one little hand, and smiled at him; and from the manner of that smile he knew that she was not by any means pleased, but thought it as well to conciliate him. “Roland, you know that I never pay heed,” she began, with a voice that shook just a little, “to rumours that reach me through servants, or even allow them to think of telling me.” “Dear mother, of course you never do. Such a thing would be far beneath you.” “Well, well, you might wait till I have spoken, before you begin to judge me. If I listen to nothing, I must be quite unlike all the other women in the world.” “And so you are. How well you express it! At last you begin to perceive, my dear mother, what I perpetually urge in vain--your own superiority.” What man’s mother can be expected to endure mild irony, even half so well as his wife would? “Roland, this manner of speech,--I know not what to call it, but I have heard of it among foreign people years ago,--whatever it is, I beg you not to catch it from that boy Hilary.”