Chapter 9

On the afternoon of the day upon which this occurred, Coombe was
standing in Feather's drawing-room with a cup of tea in his hand
and wearing the look of a man who is given up to reflection.

"I saw Mrs. Muir today for the first time for several years," he
said after a silence. "She is in London with the boy."

"Is she as handsome as ever?"

"Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and
bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony."

"What is the boy like?"

Coombe reflected again before he answered.

"He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical
perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon
it suddenly face to face."

"Is he as beautiful as all that?"

"The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often
called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly
was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the
expression of it."

Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of
gauze and she smiled vaguely.

"I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of
spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has
not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she
stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let
drop in addition.

"So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of
pause.

Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his
heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive
sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into
the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood
devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules.
A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident
over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His
character and appearance were such that even his connection with
an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons
to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue
Henry would be the Head of the House.

"How is his cough?" inquired Feather.

"Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause
for remaining alive."

Feather made three or four stitches.

"Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said.

"If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is
all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course
she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes
his place in the