Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, the poor mother went for her sins and saw the poor invalid. Sometimes he laughed at her (and his laughter was more pitiful than to hear him cry); sometimes she found the brilliant dandy diplomatist of the Congress of Vienna dragging about a child's toy, or nursing the keeper's baby's doll. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole, her director and companion; oftener he forgot her, as he had done wife, children, love, ambition, vanity. But he remembered his dinner-hour, and used to cry if his wine-and-water was not strong enough.
It was the mysterious taint of the blood; the poor mother had brought it from her own ancient race. The evil had broken out once or twice in the father's family, long before Lady Steyne's sins had begun, or her fasts and tears and penances had been offered in their expiation. The pride of the race was struck down as the first-born of Pharaoh. The dark mark of fate and doom was on the threshold--the tall old threshold surmounted by coronets and caned heraldry.

Twice or thrice a week, in the early morning, his poor mother went to see him. Sometimes he laughed at her; sometimes she found him dragging about a child's toy. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole; oftener he forgot her, as he had done wife, children, love, ambition, and all but his dinner-hour.
The poor mother had brought this taint from her own ancient race. The evil had broken out once or twice in her father's family. The dark mark of doom was on the threshold.
