" "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing. "Suppose he does. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. It is always on his person. “Do it now. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said.
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