" "Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. I'll speak to McClintock to-night and see if he won't take us for a junket on The Tigress.
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