She was silent; for to rouse her tyrant was more than she dare do.  If awakened, he would crave for brandy and water; and if he got that sweet poison, he would probably become furious.  She stood for half a minute; and Tom, who knew her story well, watched her curiously.

“She is a fine woman:  and with a far finer heart in her than that brute.  Her eyebrow and eye, now, have the true Siddons’ stamp; the great white forehead, and sharp-cut little nostril, breathing scorn—­and what a Siddons-like attitude!—­I should like, madam, to see the child again before I go.”

“If you are fit, sir,” answered she.

“Brave woman; comes to the point at once, I am a poor doctor, madam, and not a country gentleman; and have neither money nor health to spend in drinking too much wine.”

“Then why do you encourage him in it, sir?  I had expected a very different sort of conduct from you, sir.”

Tom did not tell her what she would not (no woman will) understand; that it is morally and socially impossible to escape from the table of a fool, till either he or you are conquered; and she was too shrewd to be taken in by commonplace excuses; so he looked her very full in the face, and replied a little haughtily, with a slow and delicate articulation, using his lips more than usual, and yet compressing them:—­

“I beg your pardon, madam, if I have unintentionally displeased you:  but if you ever do me the honour of knowing more of me, you will be the first to confess that your words are unjust.  Do you wish me to see your son, or do you not?”

Poor Mrs. Trebooze looked at him, with an eye which showed that she had been accustomed to study character keenly, perhaps in self-defence.  She saw that Tom was sober; he had taken care to prove that, by the way in which he spoke; and she saw, too, that he was a better bred man than her husband, as well as a cleverer.  She dropped her eye before his; heaved something very like a sigh; and then said, in her curt, fierce tone, which yet implied a sort of sullen resignation—­

“Yes; come up-stairs.”

Tom went up, and looked at the boy again, as he lay sleeping.  A beautiful child of four years old, as large and fair a child as man need see; and yet there was on him the curse of his father’s sins; and Tom knew it, and knew that his mother knew it also.

“What a noble boy!” said he, after looking, not without honest admiration, upon the sleeping child, who had kicked off his bed-clothes, and lay in a wild graceful attitude, as children are wont to lie; just like an old Greek statue of Cupid, “It all depends upon you, madam, now.”

“On me?” she asked, in a startled, suspicious tone.

“Yes.  He is a magnificent boy:  but—­I can only give palliatives.  It depends upon your care now.”

“He will have that, at least, I should hope,” she said, nettled.

“And on your influence ten years hence,” went on Tom.