It was then
that Mrs. Quentin measured the extent of her isolation. Had she ever
dared to forecast such a situation, she would have proceeded on the
conventional theory that her son's suffering must draw her nearer to
him; and this was precisely the relief that was denied her. Alan's
uncommunicativeness extended below the level of speech, and his
mother, reduced to the helplessness of dead-reckoning, had not even
the solace of adapting her sympathy to his needs. She did not know
what he felt: his course was incalculable to her. She sometimes
wondered if she had become as incomprehensible to him; and it was to
find a moment's refuge from the dogging misery of such conjectures
that she had now turned in at the Museum.
The long line of mellow canvases seemed to receive her into the rich
calm of an autumn twilight. She might have been walking in an
enchanted wood where the footfall of care never sounded. So deep was
the sense of seclusion that, as she turned from her prolonged
communion with the new Beltraffio, it was a surprise to find she was
not alone.
A young lady who had risen from the central ottoman stood in
suspended flight as Mrs. Quentin faced her. The older woman was the
first to regain her self-possession.
"Miss Fenno!" she said.
The girl advanced with a blush. As it faded, Mrs. Quentin noticed a
change in her. There had always been something bright and bannerlike
in her aspect, but now her look drooped, and she hung at half-mast,
as it were.
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