Mrs. Morel was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not good now, and there had come that ivory pallor into her face which he never noticed, and which afterwards he never forgot. She did not mention her own ill-health to him. After all, she thought, it was not much.
“You are late!” she said, looking at him.
His eyes were shining; his face seemed to glow. He smiled to her.
“Yes; I’ve been down Clifton Grove with Clara.”
His mother looked at him again.