They made a pretty picture – “The Prodigal’s Return” or “The Old Folks Home”, bySimpkins, R.A., Royal Academy, 1887. No, byHeaven,there was no suggestion of that. It was a marvellousand tragic scene I regarded. The fitfullightof the fire showed figures of an antique beauty and dignity. The regal profile of the woman, her superb pose, and the soft eerie music of her voice were a world removedfrom vulgarity, and so was the lithe vigour and proud face of theman. They were more like a king and queen in exile, decreeing the sea of blood which was to wash them back again. I realized for the first time that Medina might be damnable, but was also great. Yes, the man who had spat on me like a stable-boyhad also something of the prince. I realized another thing. Thewoman’s touch had flattened down the hair above hisforehead,which he brushed square, and his head, outlined in the firelight against thewhite cushion, was as round as a football. I hadsuspected this when I first saw him, and now I was certain. What did a head like that portend? I had a vagueremembrance that I had heard somewhere that it meant madness – at any rate degeneracy.
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