"An artist—an actress," I went on, rather brutally.
He gave me another glance.
"I think you are telling me all," he said.
"No, no, there is more." And we sat a long time in silence.
At last he proposed that we should go out; and we passed in the street, where the shadows had begun to stretch themselves.
"I don't know what you mean by her being an actress," he said, as we turned homeward.
"I suppose not. Neither should I have known, if any one had said that to me."
"You are thinking about the mother," said Stanmer. "Why are you always bringing her in?"
"My dear boy, the analogy is so great; it forces itself upon me."
He stopped, and stood looking at me with his modest, perplexed young face. I thought he was going to exclaim—"The analogy be hanged!"—but he said after a moment—
"Well, what does it prove?"
"I can't say it proves anything; but it suggests a great many things."
