There was, as always, an elaborate, steaming supper, with his mother, in a pelisse of black silk ruching, and Amity Merken at their places.  He noted that an empty chair had been put, as customary, at the opposite end of the table, and with a trace of impatience ordered its removal.  He wondered momentarily at his petty act; and then his thoughts returned to Susan Brundon.  Jasper Penny saw her blue gaze lifted to his face, the hesitating smile; he felt again the pervading influence of her delicate yet essentially unshrinking spirit.  She would possess an enormous steadfastness of purpose, he decided; a potentiality of immovable self-sacrifice.  Yet she was the gentlest person alive.  An unusual and resplendent combination of traits, rare possibilities.

She had told him that she seldom went about—­her school absorbed her, and her eyes needed care, rest.  He must ask Stephen Jannan further about her.  They were sitting, Jasper Penny, his mother and her sister, in the parlour; a large, square chamber hung with dark maroon paper and long, many tasselled and corniced window curtains in sombre green plush.  A white wedgewood mantel with ornaments in olive and blue, above a brass-fretted closed stove, supported a high mirror, against which were ranged a pair of tall astral lamps shining in green and red spars of light through their pendants, a French clock—­a crystal ball in a miniature Ionic pavilion of gilt—­and artificial bouquets of coloured wax under glass domes.  A thick carpet of purplish black velvet pile covered the floor from wall to wall; stiff Adam chairs and settee with wheelbacks of black and gold were upholstered in dusky ruby and indigo.  Ebony tables of framed, inlaid onyx held tortoise shell and lacquer ornaments, an inlaid tulip-wood music-box, volumes in elaborately tooled morocco, and a globe where, apparently, metallic fish were suspended in a translucent, green gloom.

The light from the multiple candelabras of ormolu and cut lustres streamed from the walls over Jasper Penny, sunk forward in profound absorption, and his mother’s busy, fat hands working with gay worsteds.  At her side a low stand of rubbed Chinese vermilion held her spilling yarns.  Her face was placid, dryly pinkish and full.  An irreproachable, domestic female.  Herself the daughter of a successful Pennsylvania German Ironmaster, her wealth had doubled the Penny successes.  There had been other children; Jasper could only faintly remember two, mostly in the form of infantile whimpering.

The inevitable termination of the evening was readied by the appearance of a pitcher of steaming, spiced mulled wine.  A cupful was formally presented to Amity Merken; Gilda Penny sipped hers with an audible satisfaction, and Jasper Penny absently drank the fragrant compound of cinnamon bark and lemon, cloves, sugar and claret.  A measure of that, before retiring, could not but be beneficial to Susan Brundon, fatigued by the duties of her Academy.  He thought of the sharper breath of the brandy and oranges compounded by Essie Scofield.  A thin odour of foxglove clung to the memory of his wife.