He laughed. “Too much for me. I started _Sordello_ once. Pity he would try to rhyme prose instead of singing songs.” He looked over her shoulder, his eyes caught by the italics that laced the close print like birds’ voices ringing through a wood. “Ah—that’s better! _Flower o’ the rose_——What is it?” “_Lippi._ You know! Oliver was mad about it. Oliver always said that Browning was a painter spoiled himself.” He nodded. “Shouldn’t wonder. Oliver generally knew what he was talking about. That now— _Flower o’ the peach, Death for us all, and his own life for each!_ Now that’s good. That’s likeable. That’s poetry and truth too. But the rest goes wrenching and jerking along like—like Vulcan. Club-foot divinity.” Again she was astonished. It was what she had always thought—but that he should think so too—should put it into words for her—was epoch-making. She was overwhelmed by the remorseful conviction that she had always and systematically undervalued him. She was so much occupied by that discovery that she did not notice, till he called to her to “listen to this rot” that the book had slid from her hand to his, that he was settling into his chair, preparing to see-saw delightfully, abolishing Browning and relenting to Browning, for the rest of the morning. It was not quite what Laura wanted; but it was very pleasant. And she finished her sock. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXVI And so, before he had more than arrived, as it seemed, Justin’s last day came. He was to catch the four-twenty. Mrs. Cloud, refusing to admit fatigue after her successful evening on the sofa, was planning to be up again—down, at least, for lunch—ready to see the poor boy off. But Justin decreed otherwise. Justin, painfully made aware on this last visit how weak the flesh had grown of that utterly willing spirit, was firm with his mother. Get up—to see him off? He would like to see her try! There was Robert to see him off and old Mary, wasn’t there? And Laura? Pack? Now did his mother think he should let her pack for him? There were boots, for instance, any one of which weighed more than his mother. Perhaps his mother would like to clean them for him first? No doubt! He outlined his ideas. They would spend a quiet morning together, and after lunch she was to be good and settle down to her nap. Of course he would run up before he left and say good-bye again—what did she think? But then she must promise him to go to sleep, really to go to sleep—no slippings out of bed at the sound of carriage wheels—no surreptitious waving from behind window curtains. What? Did she think he didn’t know her little ways? He sat with her, as he had promised, till she fell into a light drowse, and then slipped away cautiously to his own room.