This then was the "game" that Coryston had warned her of. He was actually
playing it; though she had never believed for one moment that he would ever
do so. How was she to meet it? With firmness, no doubt, and dignity. As to
the firmness she had no fears; it was the dignity she was anxious about.
Lady Coryston was a woman of conscience; although no doubt she had long ago
harnessed her will to her conscience, which revolved--sometimes heavily--in
the rear. Still there the conscience was, and periodically she had to take
account of it. Periodically, it made her uncomfortable on the subject of
her eldest son. Periodically, it forced her to ask herself--as in this
reverie by the window--"How is it that, bit by bit, and year by year,
he and I have drifted to this pass? Who began it? Is it in any sense my
fault?"
How was it, in the first place, that neither she nor his father had ever
had any real influence over this incorrigible spirit; that even in Corry's
childish days, when his parents had him at their mercy, they might punish,
and thwart, and distress him, but could never really conquer him? Lady
Coryston could recall struggles with her son, whether at home or at school,
which turned her sick to think of.
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