Now, indeed, as, after a few bantering remarks to his mother on his recent political escapades--remarks which she took in complete silence--he settled himself in a high chair in front of her to listen to what she had to say, no subtle observer of the scene but must have perceived the likeness--through all contrast--between mother and son. Lady Coryston was tall, large-boned, thin to emaciation, imposing--a Lady Macbeth of the drawing-room. Coryston was small, delicately finished, a whimsical snippet of a man--on wires--never at ease--the piled fair hair overbalancing the face and the small, sarcastic chin. And yet the essential note of both physiognomies, of both aspects, was the same. _Will_--carried to extremes, absorbing and swallowing up the rest of the personality. Lady Coryston had handed on the disease of her own character to her son, and it was in virtue of what she had given him that she had made him her enemy. Her agitation in his presence, in spite of her proud bearing, was indeed evident, at least to Marcia. Marcia read her; had indeed been compelled to read her mother--the movements of hand and brow, the tricks of expression--from childhood up. And she detected, from various signs of nervousness, that Lady Coryston expected a rough time. She led the way to it, however, with deliberation. She took no notice of Coryston's, "Well, mother, what's up? Somebody to be tried and executed?" but, waving to him to take a particular chair, she asked the others to sit, and placed herself beside the table which held the sheets of folded foolscap. The ugly electric light from overhead fell full upon the pallid oval of her face, on her lace cap, and shimmering black dress. Only Marcia noticed that the hand which took up the foolscap shook a little. It was an old hand, delicately white, with large finger-joints. "I can't pretend to make a jest of what I'm going to say," she said, with a look at Coryston. "I wanted to speak to you all on a matter of business--not very agreeable business, but necessary. I am sure you will hear me out, and believe that I am doing my best, according to my lights, by the family--the estates--and the country." At the last slowly spoken words Lady Coryston drew herself up. Especially when she said "the country," it was as though she mentioned something peculiarly her own, something attacked which fled to her for protection. Marcia looked round on her three brothers: Coryston sunk in a big gilt chair, one leg cocked over the other, his fingers lightly crossed above his head; James with his open brow, his snub nose, his charming expression; and Arthur, who had coaxed Lady Coryston's spaniel on to his lap and was pulling his ears. He looked, she thought, bored and only half attentive. And yet she was tolerably certain that he knew no more than she did what Was going to happen.