He already felt the boy in his arms; was already conscious of the ardour
with which every device of science should be called in, to help restore
to him, not only his son's body, but his mind.
There was a low tap at the door. He recalled his thoughts and went
to open it.
"Helena!--my dear!"
He took her hand and led her in. She had changed her white dress of the
afternoon for a little black frock, one of her mourning dresses for her
mother, with a bunch of flame-coloured roses at her waist. The
semi-transparent folds of the black brought out the brilliance of the
white neck and shoulders, the pale carnations of the face, the beautiful
hair, following closely the contours of the white brow. Even through all
his pain and preoccupation, Buntingford admired; was instantly conscious
of the sheer pleasure of her beauty. But it was the pleasure of an
artist, an elder brother--a father even. Her mother was in his mind, and
the strong affection he had begun to feel for his ward was shot through
and through by the older tenderness.
"Sit there, dear," he said, pushing forward a chair.
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