"That is true, O Achilles," said the woman with a quiet laugh.
"In other words," pursued Northcote, "he demonstrates in his own person the impossibility of a reconciliation in any terms whatever between the ideal world of the spirit and the material world of the flesh."
"Why trouble to put it into so many words, dear lad? Briefly, I am the child of the poor drunken man of genius, my father; and I suspect that you had a poor drunken man of genius for your father also."
"I would have you to know that my father was ordained a clergyman of the Church of England."
"How old was he when he died?"
"About thirty."
"Did it never occur to you that the poor fellow killed himself in the struggle to become an honest man?"
"These eyes of yours are dreadfully piercing. I remember my mother saying of him that the clock of his intellect was always set a little too fast."
"She never informed you by any chance, dear lad, that if he had not taken an overdose of opium he would have died a lunatic?"
"Or that he killed himself with drinking brandy after the manner of your own illustrious parent. By the way, you have yet to give me a description of your mother. Can you recall her?"
"She died, worn out, I believe, by slavery when I was about four years old. She reminded me of a cow; her eyes were so placid and her movements were so slow. But she had been affiliated to the Trades' Union from her earliest days. I believe
