As for Mr. Brownlow, it took him some time to recover himself. It was not quite easy to realize the position, especially after the warm, not to say violent, way in which he had been beguiled into taking Pamela’s part. He had meant every word of what he said. Her sweet little face had attracted him more than he knew how to explain; it had reminded him, he could not exactly tell of what, of something that belonged to his youth and made his heart soft. And the thought of pain or shame coming to her through his son had been very bitter to him. But he was not quite ready all the same to say, Bless you, my children. Such a notion, indeed, had never occurred to him. Mr. Brownlow had never for a moment supposed that his son Jack, the wise and prudent, could have been led to entertain such an idea; and he was so much startled that he did not know what to think. After the first pause of amazement he had gone on again slowly, feeling as if by walking on some kind of mental progress might also be practicable; and Jack had accompanied him in a slightly jaunty, magnanimous, and forgiving way. Indeed, circumstances altogether had conspired, as it were, in Jack’s favor. He could not have hoped for so good an opportunity of telling his story--an opportunity which not only took all that was formidable from the disclosure, but actually presented it in the character of a relief and standing evidence of unthought-of virtue. And Jack was so simple-minded in the midst of his wisdom that it seemed to him as if his father’s anticipated opposition were summarily disposed of, to be heard of no more--a thing which he did not quite know whether to be sorry for or glad. Perhaps it staggered him a little in this idea when Mr. Brownlow, after going on, very slowly and thoughtfully, almost to the very door of the house, turned back again, and began to retrace his steps, still as gravely and quietly as ever. Then a certain thrill of anticipation came over Jack. One fytte was ended, but another was for to say. Feeling had been running very high between them when they last spoke; now there was a certain hushed tone about the talk, as if a cloud had suddenly rolled over them. Mr. Brownlow spoke, but he did not look at Jack, nor even look up, but went on moodily, with his eyes fixed on the ground, now and then stopping to kick away a little stone among the gravel, a pause which became almost tragic by repetition. “Is it long since this happened?” he said, speaking in a very subdued tone of voice. “No,” said Jack, feeling once more the high color rushing up into his face, though in the darkness there was nobody who could see--“no, only a few days.” “And you said your wife,” Mr. Brownlow added--“your wife. Whom does she belong to? People don’t go so far without knowing a few preliminaries, I suppose?”