“I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. His tone was kind and sympathetic. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Can you wonder that I expect you to fulfil yours?” “I am not aware,” she answered, “that I have ever failed in doing so.
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