Richard listened without irritation; he was heavy-hearted, the shock of his brother’s disgrace had disposed him to see his life on its dark side. And he pitied his poor old mother. She had never been tender in her words, could not be tender; but he saw in her countenance the suffering through which she had gone, and read grievous things in the eyes that could no longer weep. For once he yielded to rebuke. Her complaint that he had not come to see her touched him, for he had desired to come, but could not subdue his pride. Her voice was feebler than when he last heard it raised in reproach; it reminded him that there would come a day when he might long to hear even words of upbraiding, but the voice would be mute for ever. It needed a moment such as this to stir his sluggish imagination. ‘What you say is true, mother, but we couldn’t help it. It’s turned out badly because we live in bad times. It’s the state of society that’s to blame.’ He was sincere in saying it; that is to say, he used the phrase so constantly that it had become his natural utterance in difficulty; it may be that in his heart he believed it. Who, indeed, shall say that he was wrong? But what made such an excuse so disagreeable in his case was that he had not--intellectually speaking--the right to avail himself of it. The difference between truth and cant often lies only in the lips that give forth the words. ‘Yes, that’s what you always said,’ replied Mrs. Mutimer impatiently. ‘It’s always someone else as is to blame, an’ never yourself. The world’s a good enough world if folk ‘ud only make it so. Was it the bad times as made you leave a good, honest girl when you’d promised to marry her? No, you must have a fine lady for your wife; a plain girl as earnt her own bread, an’ often had hard work to get it, wasn’t good enough for you. Don’t talk to me about bad times. There’s some men as does right an’ some as does wrong; it always was so, an’ the world’s no worse nor no better, an’ not likely to be.’ The poor woman could not be generous. A concession only led her on to speak the thoughts it naturally suggested to her. And her very bitterness was an outcome of her affection; it soothed her to rail at her son after so long a silence. He had injured her by his holding aloof; she was urged on by this feeling quite as much as by anger with his faults. And still Mutimer showed no resentment. In him, too, there was a pleasure which came of memories revived. Let her say to him what she liked, he loved his mother and was glad to be once more in her presence. ‘I wish I could have pleased you better, mother,’ he said. ‘What’s done can’t be helped. We’ve trouble to bear together, and it won’t be lighter for angry words.’ The old woman muttered something inaudible and, after feeling her iron and discovering that it was cold, she put it down before the fire. Her tongue had eased itself, and she fell again into silent grief.