Weep on, smile no more, young mother!--the last page is turned! An attendant entered the room, and gave to Viola a card, with these words in English, "Viola, I must see you! Clarence Glyndon." Oh, yes, how gladly Viola would see him; how gladly speak to him of her happiness, of Zanoni!--how gladly show to him her child! Poor Clarence! she had forgotten him till now, as she had all the fever of her earlier life,--its dreams, its vanities, its poor excitement, the lamps of the gaudy theatre, the applause of the noisy crowd.
He entered.

She started to behold him, so changed were his gloomy brow, his resolute, careworn features, from the graceful form and careless countenance of the artist-lover.

His dress, though not mean, was rude, neglected, and disordered.

A wild, desperate, half-savage air had supplanted that ingenuous mien, diffident in its grace, earnest in its diffidence, which had once characterised the young worshipper of Art, the dreaming aspirant after some starrier lore.
"Is it you ?" she said at last.

"Poor Clarence, how changed!" "Changed!" he said abruptly, as he placed himself by her side.