did she gaze at him so sadly?
Come, come, he cried, she had been leading an unnatural life,
cloistered, cheerless. Now that she was independent, she must enjoy
herself, see the world! Brave words; and braver still those in which he
replied to Amy's entreaty that he would share her wealth. Not he,
indeed! If, as she said, the Doctor meant and hoped it, why did he not
make that plain in his will? Not a penny would he take. He had all he
wanted. And he seemed to himself the most magnanimous of men.

Amy lived on at Greystone; amid friends, to be sure, but silent,
melancholy; and he, the brother whom she loved, could spare her only a
day or two once a year, when he chattered his idle self-conceit. Anyone
else would have taken trouble to inquire the cause of her pallor, her
sadness. He, forsooth, had to learn with astonishment, at last, that
she wished to see him--on her deathbed.

He had often thought of her, and kindly. But he knew her not at all,
took no interest in her existence. She, on the other hand, had
treasured every miserable little letter his idleness vouchsafed; she
had hoped so for his future, ever believing in him. When Amy lay dead,
he saw the sheet of paper on which she had written the few lines
necessary to endow him with all she left--everything 'to my dear
brother'. What words could have reproached him so keenly?

His steps turned to the churchyard, where on a plain upright stone he
read the names of his mother, of his father. Amy's grave was hard by.
He, too, if he had his wish, would some day rest here; and here his own
son would stand, and read his name, and think of him. Ah, but with no
such remorse and self-contempt! That was inconceivable. The tenderness
which dimmed his eyes would have changed to misery had he dreamed it
possible that his own boy could palter so ignobly with the
opportunities of life.

Upon these deep emotions intruded the thought of Alma. Intruded; for he
neither sought nor welcomed his wife's companionship at such a moment,
and he was disturbed by a perception of the little claim she had to be
present with him in spirit. He could no longer pretend to himself that
he loved Alma; whatever the right name for his complex of
feelings--interest, regard, admiration, sexual attachment--assuredly it
must be another word than that sacred to the memory of his parents, to
the desires and hopes centring in his child. For all that, he had no
sense of a hopeless discord in his wedded life;