his anguish was none the less real for its vehemence; and the stricken
lady came to him instantly and bent over him, once more enfolding him
in her arms. She said nothing, but suddenly her tears fell upon his
head; she saw them, and seemed to be startled.
"Oh, this won't do!" she said. "I've never let you see me cry before,
except when your father died. I mustn't!"
And she ran from the room.
. . .A little while after she had gone, George rose and began solemnly
to dress for dinner. At one stage of these conscientious proceedings
he put on, temporarily, his long black velvet dressing-gown, and,
happening to catch sight in his pier glass of the picturesque and
medieval figure thus presented, he paused to regard it; and something
profoundly theatrical in his nature came to the surface.
His lips moved; he whispered, half-aloud, some famous fragments:
"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black . . ."
For, in truth, the mirrored princely image, with hair dishevelled on
the white brow, and the long tragic fall of black velvet from the
shoulders, had brought about (in his thought at least) some
comparisons of his own times, so out of joint, with those of that
other gentle prince and heir whose widowed mother was minded to marry
again.
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