"Much better," I said calmly. "Much better, I thank you, Dr. John."
For, reader, this tall young man--this darling son--this host of mine
--this Graham Bretton, _was_ Dr. John: he, and no other; and, what
is more, I ascertained this identity scarcely with surprise. What is
more, when I heard Graham's step on the stairs, I knew what manner of
figure would enter, and for whose aspect to prepare my eyes. The
discovery was not of to-day, its dawn had penetrated my perceptions
long since. Of course I remembered young Bretton well; and though ten
years (from sixteen to twenty-six) may greatly change the boy as they
mature him to the man, yet they could bring no such utter difference
as would suffice wholly to blind my eyes, or baffle my memory. Dr.
John Graham Bretton retained still an affinity to the youth of
sixteen: he had his eyes; he had some of his features; to wit, all the
excellently-moulded lower half of the face; I found him out soon. I
first recognised him on that occasion, noted several chapters back,
when my unguardedly-fixed attention had drawn on me the mortification
of an implied rebuke. Subsequent observation confirmed, in every
point, that early surmise. I traced in the gesture, the port, and the
habits of his manhood, all his boy's promise. I heard in his now deep
tones the accent of former days. Certain turns of phrase, peculiar to
him of old, were peculiar to him still; and so was many a trick of eye
and lip, many a smile, many a sudden ray levelled from the irid, under
his well-charactered brow.
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