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You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. Anything. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. I am up to the ears in it all— every moment I can spare. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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