It was a life, memories, in which the elder had no part;
that consciousness dictated a part of his father's bitterness toward St.
James, the Royal Government. But Gilbert Penny had never had serious
reason to dread it. His wife had left it all behind, permanently,
without, apparently, a regret. He had a sudden, astonishing community of
feeling with the older man; a momentary dislike of St. James,
Versailles, the entire, treacherous, silk mob. A lover at fourteen!
Howat damned such a betrayal with a bitterness whose base lay deeply
buried in sex jealousy.
"I am glad," the other continued, "that you are not susceptible; I
suppose you'll be off hunting in a day or more; Mrs. Winscombe is bright
wine for a young man. Women like her play at sensation, like eating
figs." He thought contemptuously what nonsense was talked in connection
with feminine intuition; it was nothing more than a polite chimera,
like all the other famous morals and inhibitions supposed to serve and
direct mankind.
He wondered once more about his mother, what the course of her life had
been--happily occupied, filled, or merely self-contained, hiding much in
a deep, even flow? Her head was turned away from him, and he could see
the girlish profile, the astonishing illusion of youth renewed.
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