"Yes; she was here yesterday afternoon. She is always bright and amusing, and I always feel particularly stupid in her society. She is always bright and amusing, and I always feel particularly stupid in her society. She talked of you, but I did not tell her I wanted to make your acquaintance. She would have offered to make a luncheon-party for me to meet you--or something dreadful of that kind." "You have a great dislike to society, Mrs. Wornock?" he asked, keenly interested. Her manner was so fresh and simple, almost childlike in its confiding candour, and her appearance was no less interesting than her manner. It is the fashion of our day for women of five and forty to look young, even to girlishness; but most women of five and forty are considerably indebted to modern art for that advantage. Here there was no art. The pale, clear fairness of the complexion owed nothing to the perfumer's palette. No _poudre des fées_ blanched the delicate brow; no _rose d'amour_ flushed the cheek; no _eau de Medée_ brightened the large violet eyes. The lines which thought and sorrow had drawn upon the fair brow were undisguised, and in the soft, pale gold of the hair there were threads of silver. The youthfulness of the face was in its colouring and expression--the complexion so delicately fair, the countenance so trustful and pleading. It was the countenance of a woman to whom the conventionalities and jargon of modern life were unknown. "You saw my son's portrait in the corridor?" said Mrs. Wornock. "Yes. It struck my untutored eye as a very fine picture--almost as powerful as the Gladstone and the Salisbury, which I remember in the Millais collection at the Grosvenor." "But as for the likeness to yourself, now--did that strike you as forcibly as it has struck other people?" "I confess that as I stood in the hall I was inclined to exclaim, 'That is I or my brother!' But as I came nearer the picture I saw there was considerable diversity. To begin with, your son is much handsomer than I." "The drawing of his features may be more correct, but you are quite handsome enough," she answered, with her pretty friendly air, as if she had been his aunt. "And your face is more strongly marked than his, just as your voice is stronger," she added, with a sigh. "Your son is not an invalid, I hope?" "An invalid! No. But he is not very strong. He could not play football. He hated even cricket. He is passionately fond of horses, and an ardent sportsman; but he can be sadly idle. He likes to lie about in the sunshine, reading or dreaming. I fear he is a dreamer, like his mother." "He is not like you, in person." "No." "He is like his father, no doubt." "You will see his father's picture, and you can judge for yourself. Well, we are to be friends, are we not, Mr. Carew? And you will come to see me sometimes; and if you ever have any little troubles which can be lightened by a woman's sympathy, you will come and confide them to me, I hope."