The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark window-curtains were drawn⁵ so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the first time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and he was struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged⁶ the fine old man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; his complexion⁷ looked dull and withered⁸; there was a swollen⁹ ridge¹⁰ under his eyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the present, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer a sense, but a memory.

 

He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside him in silence. Sir Christopher’s heart began to swell¹¹ at this unspoken sympathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his cheeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood were for Anthony.

 

Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He could not speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said something which might lead on to the cruel words that must be spoken.

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