“It’s a mad notion,” he said.

“It is.”

“If you had only—!  Well—­they might have been—­” he did not finish that sentence “brother and sister and all this saved,” but he saw her shudder as if he had, and stung by the sight he crossed over to the window.  Out there the trees had not grown—­they couldn’t, they were old!

“So far as I’m concerned,” he said, “you may make your mind easy.  I desire to see neither you nor your son if this marriage comes about.  Young people in these days are—­are unaccountable.  But I can’t bear to see my daughter unhappy.  What am I to say to her when I go back?”

“Please say to her as I said to you, that it rests with Jon.”

“You don’t oppose it?”

“With all my heart; not with my lips.”

Soames stood, biting his finger.

“I remember an evening—­” he said suddenly; and was silent.  What was there—­what was there in this woman that would not fit into the four corners of his hate or condemnation?  “Where is he—­your son?”

“Up in his father’s studio, I think.”

“Perhaps you’d have him down.”

He watched her ring the bell, he watched the maid come in.

“Please tell Mr. Jon that I want him.”

“If it rests with him,” said Soames hurriedly, when the maid was gone, “I suppose I may take it for granted that this unnatural marriage will take place; in that case there’ll be formalities.  Whom do I deal with—­Herring’s?”

Irene nodded.

“You don’t propose to live with them?”

Irene shook her head.

“What happens to this house?”

“It will be as Jon wishes.”

“This house,” said Soames suddenly:  “I had hopes when I began it.  If they live in it—­their children!  They say there’s such a thing as Nemesis.  Do you believe in it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!  You do!”

He had come back from the window, and was standing close to her, who, in the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed.

“I’m not likely to see you again,” he said slowly.  “Will you shake hands”—­his lip quivered, the words came out jerkily—­“and let the past die.”  He held out his hand.  Her pale face grew paler, her eyes so dark, rested immovably on his, her hands remained clasped in front of her.  He heard a sound and turned.  That boy was standing in the opening of the curtains.  Very queer he looked, hardly recognisable as the young fellow he had seen in the Gallery off Cork Street—­very queer; much older, no youth in the face at all—­haggard, rigid, his hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head.  Soames made an effort, and said with a lift of his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer: 

“Well, young man!  I’m here for my daughter; it rests with you, it seems—­this matter.  Your mother leaves it in your hands.”

The boy continued staring at his mother’s face, and made no answer.