  Lord Chickney was only slightly older than Lord Moggeridge, but he had not worn nearly so well. His hearing was not good, though he would never admit it, and the loss of several teeth greatly affected his articulation. One might generalize and say that neither physically nor mentally do soldiers wear so well as lawyers. The army ages men sooner than the law and philosophy; it exposes them more freely to germs, which undermine and destroy, and it shelters them more completely from thought, which stimulates and preserves. A lawyer must keep his law highly polished and up-to-date or he hears of it within a fortnight, a general never realizes he is out of training and behind the times until disaster is accomplished. Since the magnificent retreat from Bondy-Satina in eighty-seven and his five weeks defence of Barrowgast (with the subsequent operations) the abilities of Lord Chickney had never been exercised seriously at all. But there was a certain simplicity of manner and a tall drooping grizzled old-veteran picturesqueness about him that kept him distinguished; He was a man of blameless private life, a widower and childless. In later years he had come to believe that he had once been very deeply He was really gratified when he got a wire from the less discreditable of these two bright young relations, saying, “Sorely in need of your advice. Hope to bring difficulties to you to-day at twelve.” He concluded very naturally that the boy had come to some crisis in his unfortunate entanglement with Madeleine Philips, and he was flattered by the trustfulness that brought the matter to him. He resolved to be delicate but wily, honourable, strictly honourable, but steadily, patiently separative. He paced his spacious study with his usual morning’s work neglected, and rehearsed little sentences in his mind that might be effective in the approaching interview. There would probably be emotion. He would pat the lad on his shoulder and be himself a little emotional. “I understand, my boy,” he would say, “I understand. He would be emotional, he would be sympathetic, but also he must be a man of the world. “Sort of thing that won’t do, you know, my boy; sort of thing that people will not stand.... A soldier’s wife has to be a soldier’s wife and nothing else.... Your business is to serve the king, not—not some celebrity. Lovely, no doubt. I don’t deny the charm of her—but on the hoardings, my boy.... Now don’t you think—don’t you think?—there’s some nice pure girl somewhere, sweet as violets, new as the dawn, and ready to be yours; a girl, I mean, a maiden fancy free, not—how shall I put it?—a woman of the world. Wonderful, I admit—but seasoned. Public. My dear, dear boy, I knew your mother when she was a girl, a sweet pure girl—a thing of dewy freshness. Ah! Well I remember her! All these years, my boy—Nothing. It’s difficult....” Tears stood in his brave old blue eyes as he elaborated such phrases. He went up and down mumbling them through the defective teeth and the long moustache and waving an eloquent hand. When Lord Chickney’s thoughts had once started in any direction it was difficult to turn them aside. No doubt that concealed and repudiated deafness helped his natural perplexity of mind. Truth comes to some of us as a still “Alan, uncle,—not Eric. My brother is Eric.” “Well, I called him Alan. Tell me all about it. Tell me what has happened. What are you thinking of doing? Just put the positions before me. To tell you the truth I’ve been worrying over this business for some time.” “Didn’t know you’d heard of it, uncle. He can’t have talked about it already. Anyhow,—you see all the awkwardness of the situation. They say the old chap’s a thundering spiteful old devil when he’s roused—and there’s no doubt he was roused.... Tremendously....” Lord Chickney was not listening very attentively. Indeed he was also talking. “Not clear to me there was another man in it,” he was saying. “That makes it more complicated, my boy, makes the row acuter. Old fellow, eh? Who?” They came to a pause at the same moment. “You speak so indistinctly,” complained Lord Chickney. “Who did you say?” “I thought you understood. Lord Moggeridge.” “I thought you understood, uncle.” “He doesn’t want to marry her! Tut! Never! Why, the man must be sixty if he’s a day....” Captain Douglas regarded his distinguished uncle for a moment with distressed eyes. Then he came nearer, raised his voice and spoke more deliberately. “I don’t know whether you quite understand, uncle. I am talking about this affair at Shonts last week-end.” “My dear boy, there’s no need for you to shout. If only you don’t mumble and clip your words—and turn head over heels with your ideas. Just tell me about it plainly. Who is Shonts? One of those Liberal peers? I seem to have heard the name....” “Shonts, uncle, is the house the Laxtons have; you know,—Lucy.” “Little Lucy! I remember her. Curls all down her back. Married the milkman. But how does she come in, Alan? The story’s getting—complicated. But that’s the worst of these infernal affairs,—they always do get complicated. Tangled skeins— “‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we venture to deceive.’ “And now, like a sensible man, you want to get out of it.” Captain Douglas was bright pink with the effort to control himself and keep perfectly plain “I spent last week-end at Shonts,” he said. “Lord Moggeridge, also there, week-ending. Got it into his head that I was pulling his leg.” “Naturally, my boy, if he goes philandering. At his time of life. What else can he expect?” “It wasn’t philandering.” “Fine distinctions. Fine distinctions. Go on—anyhow.” “He got it into his head that I was playing practical jokes upon him. Confused me with Eric. It led to a rather first-class row. I had to get out of the house. Nothing else to do. He brought all sorts of accusations—” Captain Douglas stopped short. His uncle was no longer attending to him. They had drifted to the window of the study and the general was staring with an excitement and intelligence that grew visibly at the spectacle of Bealby and the trailer outside. For Bealby had been left in the trailer, and he was sitting as good as gold waiting for the next step in his vindication from the dark charge of burglary. He was very travel-worn and the trailer was time-worn as well as travel-worn, and both contrasted with the efficient neatness and newness of the motor bicycle in front. The contrast had attracted the attention of a tall policeman who was standing in a state of elucidatory meditation regarding Bealby. Bealby was not regarding the policeman. He had the utmost confidence in Captain Douglas, From the window the policeman very largely obscured Bealby.... Whenever hearts are simple there lurks romance. Age cannot wither nor custom stale her infinite diversity. Suddenly out of your low kindly diplomacies, your sane man-of-the-world intentions, leaps the imagination like a rocket, flying from such safe securities bang into the sky. So it happened to the old general. He became deaf to everything but the appearances before him. The world was jewelled with dazzling and delightful possibilities. His face was lit by a glow of genuine romantic excitement. He grasped his nephew’s arm. He pointed. His grizzled cheeks flushed. “That isn’t,” he asked with something verging upon admiration in his voice and manner, “a Certain Lady in disguise?” It became clear to Captain Douglas that if ever he was to get to Lord Moggeridge that day he must take his uncle firmly in hand. Without even attempting not to appear to shout he cried, “That is a little Boy. That is my Witness. It is Most Important that I should get him to Lord Moggeridge to tell his Story.” It took exactly half an hour to get Lord Chickney from that enquiry to the telephone and even then he was still far from clear about the matter in hand. Captain Douglas got in most of the facts, but he could not eliminate an idea that it all had to do with Madeleine. Whenever he tried to say clearly that she was entirely outside the question, the general patted his shoulder and looked very wise and kind and said, “My dear Boy, I quite understand; I quite understand. Never mention a lady. No.” So they started at last rather foggily—so far as things of the mind went, though the sun that day was brilliant—and because of engine trouble in Port Street the general’s hansom reached Tenby Little Street first and he got in a good five minutes preparing the Lord Chancellor tactfully and carefully before the bicycle and its trailer came upon the scene.... Candler had been packing that morning with unusual solicitude for a week-end at Tulliver Abbey. His master had returned from the catastrophe of Shonts, fatigued and visibly aged and extraordinarily cross, and Candler looked to Tulliver Abbey to restore him to his former self. Nothing must be forgotten; there must be no little hitches, everything from first to last must Lord Moggeridge rose at half-past ten—he had been kept late overnight by a heated discussion at the Aristotelian—and breakfasted lightly upon a chop and coffee. Then something ruffled him; something that came with the letters. Candler could not quite make out what it was, but he suspected another pamphlet by Dr. Schiller. It could not be the chop, because Lord Moggeridge was always wonderfully successful with chops. Candler looked through the envelopes and letters afterwards and found nothing diagnostic, and “When I went out of the room,” said Candler, discreetly examining this. “Very likely it’s that there Schiller after all.” But in this Candler was mistaken. What had disturbed the Lord Chancellor was a coarsely disrespectful article on the Absolute by a Cambridge Rhodes scholar, written in that flighty facetious strain that spreads now like a pestilence over modern philosophical discussion. “Does the Absolute, on Lord Moggeridge’s own showing, mean anything more than an eloquent oiliness uniformly distributed through space?” and so on. Pretty bad! Lord Moggeridge early in life had deliberately acquired a quite exceptional power of mental self-control. He took his perturbed mind now and threw it forcibly into the consideration of a case upon which he had reserved judgment. He was to catch the 3.35 at Paddington, and at two he was smoking a cigar after a temperate lunch and reading over the notes of this judgment. It was then that the telephone bell became audible, and Candler came in to inform him that Lord Chickney was anxious to see him at once upon a matter of some slight importance. “Slight importance?” asked Lord Moggeridge. “Some slight importance, my lord.” “Some? Slight?” “’Is Lordship, my lord, mumbles rather now ’is back teeth ’ave gone,” said Candler, “but so I understand ’im.” Candler returned after some parleying. “So far as I can make ’is Lordship out, my lord, ’e says ’e wants to set you right about something, my lord. He says something about a little misapprehension.” “These diminutives, Candler, kill sense. Does he say what sort—what sort—of little misapprehension?” “He says something—I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s about Shonts, me lord.” “Then I don’t want to hear about it,” said Lord Moggeridge. There was a pause. The Lord Chancellor resumed his reading with a deliberate obviousness; the butler hovered. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t think exactly what I ought to say to ’is lordship, my lord.” “Tell him—tell him that I do not wish to hear anything more about Shonts for ever. Simply.” Candler hesitated and went out, shutting the door carefully lest any fragment of his halting Lord Moggeridge’s powers of mental control were, I say, very great—He could dismiss subjects from his mind absolutely. In a few instants he had completely forgotten Shonts and was making notes with a silver-cased pencil on the margins of his draft judgment. He became aware that Candler had returned. “’Is lordship, Lord Chickney, my lord, is very persistent, my lord. ’E’s rung up twice. ’E says now that ’e makes a personal matter of it. Come what may, ’e says, ’e wishes to speak for two minutes to your lordship. Over the telephone, my lord, ’e vouchsafes no further information.” Lord Moggeridge meditated over the end of his third after lunch cigar. His man watched the end of his left eyebrow as an engineer might watch a steam gauge. There were no signs of an explosion. “He must come, Candler,” his lordship said at last.... “Oh, Candler!” “My lord?” “Put the bags and things in a conspicuous position in the hall, Candler. Change yourself, and see that you look thoroughly like trains. And in fact have everything ready, prominently ready, Candler.” Then once more Lord Moggeridge concentrated his mind. § 6To him there presently entered Lord Chickney. Lord Chickney had been twice round the world and he had seen many strange and dusky peoples and many remarkable customs and peculiar prejudices, which he had never failed to despise, but he had never completely shaken off the county family ideas in which he had been brought up. He believed that there was an incurable difference in spirit between quite good people like himself and men from down below like Moggeridge, who was the son of an Exeter chorister. He believed that these men from nowhere always cherished the profoundest respect for the real thing like himself, that they were greedy for association and gratified by notice, and so for the life of him he could not approach Lord Moggeridge without a faint sense of condescension. He saluted him as “my dear Lord Moggeridge,” wrung his hand with effusion, and asked him kind, almost district-visiting, questions about his younger brother and the aspect of his house. “And you are just off, I see, for a week-end.” These amenities the Lord Chancellor acknowledged by faint gruntings and an almost imperceptible movement of his eyebrows. “There was a matter,” he said, “some little matter, on which you want to consult me?” “Well,” said Lord Chickney, and rubbed his chin. “Yes. Yes, there was a little matter, a little trouble—” “Yes. Yes. Exactly. Just a little complicated, you know, not quite simple.” The dear old soldier’s manner became almost seductive. “One of these difficult little affairs, where one has to remember that one is a man of the world, you know. A little complication about a lady, known to you both. But one must make concessions, one must understand. The boy has a witness. Things are not as you supposed them to be.” Lord Moggeridge had a clean conscience about ladies; he drew out his watch and looked at it—aggressively. He kept it in his hand during his subsequent remarks. “I must confess,” he declared, “I have not the remotest idea.... If you will be so good as to be—elementary. What is it all about?” “You see, I knew the lad’s mother,” said Lord Chickney. “In fact—” He became insanely confidential—“Under happier circumstances—don’t misunderstand me, Moggeridge; I mean no evil—but he might have been my son. I feel for him like a son....” When presently Captain Douglas, a little heated from his engine trouble, came into the room—he had left Bealby with Candler in the hall—it was instantly manifest to him that the work of preparation had been inadequately performed. Lord Moggeridge with eyebrows waving and watch in hand was of a different opinion. He addressed himself to Captain Douglas. “There isn’t a minute more,” he said. “What is all this—this philoprogenitive rigmarole about? Why have you come to me? My cab is outside now. All this about ladies and witnesses;—what is it?” “Perfectly simple, my lord! You imagine that I played practical jokes upon you at Shonts. I didn’t. I have a witness. The attack upon you downstairs, the noise in your room—” “Have I any guarantee—?” “It’s the steward’s boy from Shonts. Your man outside knows him. Saw him in the steward’s room. He made the trouble for you—and me, and then he ran away. Just caught him. Not exchanged thirty words with him. Half a dozen questions. Settle everything. Then you’ll know—nothing for you but the utmost respect.” Lord Moggeridge pressed his lips together and resisted conviction. “In consideration,” interpolated Lord Chickney, “feelings of an old fellow. Old soldier. Boy means no harm.” With the rudeness of one sorely tried the Lord Chancellor thrust the old general aside. “Oh!” he said, “Oh!” and then to Captain Douglas. “One minute. Where’s your witness?...” The Captain opened a door. Bealby found “Tell him,” said Captain Douglas. “And look sharp about it.” “Tell me plainly,” cried the Lord Chancellor, “and be—quick.” He put such a point on “quick” that it made Bealby jump. “Tell him,” said the general more gently. “Don’t be afraid.” “Well,” began Bealby after one accumulating pause, “it was ’im told me to do it. ’E said you go in there—” The Captain would have interrupted but the Lord Chancellor restrained him by a magnificent gesture of the hand holding the watch. “He told you to do it!” he said. “I knew he did. Now listen! He told you practically to go in and do anything you could.” “Yessir.” Woe took possession of Bealby. “I didn’t do any ’arm to the ole gentleman.” “But who told you?” cried the Captain. “Who told you?” Lord Moggeridge annihilated him with arm and eyebrows. He held Bealby fascinated by a pointing finger. “Don’t do more than answer the questions. I have thirty seconds more. He told you to go in. He made you go in. At the earliest possible opportunity you got away?” “I jest nipped out—” “Enough! And now, sir, how dare you come here without even a plausible lie? How dare Candler appeared. “These—these gentlemen are going. Is everything ready?” “The cab is at the door, m’lord. The usual cab.” Captain Douglas made one last desperate effort. “Sir!” he said. “My lord—” The Lord Chancellor turned upon him with a face that he sought to keep calm, though the eyebrows waved and streamed like black smoke in a gale. “Captain Douglas,” he said, “you are probably not aware of the demands upon the time and patience of a public servant in such a position as mine. You see the world no doubt as a vastly entertaining fabric upon which you can embroider your—your facetious arrangements. Well, it is not so. It is real. It is earnest. You may sneer at the simplicity of an old man, but what I tell you of life is true. Comic effect is not, believe me, its goal. And you, sir, you, sir, you impress me as an intolerably foolish, flippant and unnecessary young man. Flippant. Unnecessary. Foolish.” “My lord,” said Captain Douglas again, but his resolution was deserting him. “No,” said the Lord Chancellor, leaning forward in a minatory manner while Candler pulled down the tail of his jacket and adjusted the collar of his overcoat. “Uncle,” said Captain Douglas. “No,” said the general, with the curt decision of a soldier, and turned exactly ninety degrees away from him. “You little know how you have hurt me, Alan! You little know. I couldn’t have imagined it. The Douglas strain! False Witness—and insult. I am sorry, my dear Moggeridge, beyond measure.” “I quite understand—you are as much a victim as myself. Quite. A more foolish attempt—I am sorry to be in this hurry—” “Oh! You damned little fool,” said the Captain, and advanced a step towards the perplexed and shrinking Bealby. “You imbecile little trickster! What do you mean by it?” “I didn’t mean anything—!” Then suddenly the thought of Madeleine, sweet and overpowering, came into the head of this distraught young man. He had risked losing her, he had slighted and insulted her, and here he was—entangled. Here he was in a position of nearly inconceivable foolishness, about to He perceived that love is the supreme thing in life. He perceived that he who divides his purposes scatters his life to the four winds of heaven. A vehement resolve to cut the whole of this Bealby business pounced upon him. In that moment he ceased to care for reputation, for appearances, for the resentment of Lord Moggeridge or the good intentions of Uncle Chickney. He turned, he rushed out of the room. He escaped by unparalleled gymnastics the worst consequences of an encounter with the Lord Chancellor’s bag which the under-butler had placed rather tactlessly between the doors, crossed the wide and dignified hall, and in another moment had his engine going and was struggling to mount his machine in the street without. His face expressed an almost apoplectic concentration. He narrowly missed the noses of a pair of horses in the carriage of Lady Beach Mandarin, made an extraordinary curve to spare a fishmonger’s tricycle, shaved the front and completely destroyed the gesture of that eminent actor manager, Mr. Pomegranate, who was crossing the road in his usual inadvertent fashion, and then he was popping and throbbing and banging round the corner and on his way back to the lovely and The Captain fled from London in the utmost fury and to the general danger of the public. His heart was full of wicked blasphemies, shoutings and self-reproaches, but outwardly he seemed only pinkly intent. And as he crossed an open breezy common and passed by a milestone bearing this inscription, “To London Thirteen Miles,” his hind tyre burst conclusively with a massive report.... In every life there are crucial moments, turning points, and not infrequently it is just such a thing as this, a report, a sudden waking in the night, a flash upon the road to Damascus, that marks and precipitates the accumulating new. Vehemence is not concentration. The headlong violence of the Captain had been no expression of a single-minded purpose, of a soul all gathered together to an end. Far less a pursuit had it been than a flight, a flight from his own dissensions. And now—now he was held. After he had attempted a few plausible repairs and found the tyre obdurate, after he had addressed ill-chosen remonstrances to some unnamed hearer, after he had walked some way along the road and back in an indecision about repair shops in some neighbouring town, the last The pursuing questions came clambering upon him and would no longer be denied; who he was and what he was and how he was, and the meaning of this Rare Bate he had been in, and all those deep questions that are so systematically neglected in the haste and excitement of modern life. In short, for the first time in many headlong days he asked himself simply and plainly what he thought he was up to? Certain things became clear, and so minutely and exactly clear that it was incredible that they had ever for a moment been obscure. Of course Bealby had been a perfectly honest little boy, under some sort of misconception, and of course he ought to have been carefully coached and prepared and rehearsed before he was put before the Lord Chancellor. This was so manifest now that the Captain stared aghast at his own inconceivable negligence. But the mischief was done. Nothing now would ever propitiate Moggeridge, nothing now would ever reconcile Uncle Chickney. That was—settled. But what was not settled was the amazing disorder of his own mind. Why had he been so negligent, what had come over his mind in the last few weeks? And this sudden strange illumination of the But he was excited about her, he was so excited that these other muddles, fluctuations, follies, came as a natural consequence from that. Out of this excitement came those wild floods of angry energy that made him career about— “Like some damned Cracker,” said the Captain. “For instance,” he asked himself, “now! what am I going for? “If I go back she’ll probably behave like an offended Queen. Doesn’t seem to understand anything that does not focus on herself. Wants a sort of Limelight Lover.... “She relies upon exciting me! “She relies upon exciting everyone!—she’s just a woman specialized for excitement.” And after meditating through a profound minute upon this judgment, the Captain pronounced these two epoch-making words: “I won’t!” The Captain’s mind was now in a state of almost violent lucidity. “This sex stuff,” he said; “first I kept it under too tight and now I’ve let it rip too loose. “I’ve been just a distracted fool, with my head He produced some long impending generalizations. “Not a man’s work, this Lover business. Dancing about in a world of petticoats and powder puffs and attentions and jealousies. Rotten game. Played off against some other man.... “I’ll be hanged if I am.... “Have to put women in their places.... “Make a hash of everything if we don’t....” Then for a time the Captain meditated in silence and chewed his knuckle. His face darkened to a scowl. He swore as though some thought twisted and tormented him. “Let some other man get her! Think of her with some other man.” “I don’t care,” he said, when obviously he did. “There’s other women in the world. “A man—a man mustn’t care for that.... “It’s this or that,” said the Captain, “anyhow....” Suddenly the Captain’s mind was made up and done. He arose to his feet and his face was firm and tranquil and now nearer pallor than pink. He left his bicycle and trailer by the wayside even as Christian left his burden. He asked a passing nurse-girl the way to the nearest railway station, and thither he went. Incidentally, and because the opportunity offered, he called in upon a He wrote a letter to Madeleine from the Est train next day, using their customary endearments, avoiding any discussion of their relations and describing the scenery of the Seine valley and the characteristics of Rouen in a few vivid and masterly phrases. “If she’s worth having, she’ll understand,” said the Captain, but he knew perfectly well she would not understand. Mrs. Geedge noted this letter among the others, and afterwards she was much exercised by Madeleine’s behaviour. For suddenly that lady became extraordinarily gay and joyous in her bearing, singing snatches of song and bubbling over with suggestions for larks and picnics and wild excursions. She patted Mr. Geedge on the shoulder and ran her arm through the arm of Professor Bowles. Both gentlemen received these familiarities with a gawky coyness that Mrs. Geedge found contemptible. And moreover Madeleine drew several shy strangers into their circle. She invited the management to a happy participation. Her great idea was a moonlight picnic. “We’ll have a great camp-fire and afterwards we’ll dance—this very night.” “But wouldn’t it be better to-morrow?” “To-night!” Mrs. Geedge knew better because she had seen the French stamp on the letter, but she meant to get to the bottom of this business, and thus it was she said this. “I’ve sent him back to his soldiering,” said Madeleine serenely. “He has better things to do.” For some moments after the unceremonious departure of Captain Douglas from the presence of Lord Moggeridge, it did not occur to anyone, it did not occur even to Bealby, that the Captain had left his witness behind him. The general and the Lord Chancellor moved into the hall, and Bealby, under the sway of a swift compelling gesture from Candler, followed modestly. The same current swept them all out into the portico, and while the under-butler whistled up a hansom for the General, the Lord Chancellor, with a dignity that was at once polite and rapid, and Candler gravely protective and little reproving, departed. Bealby, slowly apprehending their desertion, regarded the world of London with perplexity and dismay. Candler had gone. The last of the gentlemen was going. The under-butler, Bealby felt, was no friend. Under-butlers never are. Lord Chickney in the very act of entering his cab had his coat-tail tugged. He looked enquiringly. Lord Chickney reflected. “Well?” he said. The spirit of Bealby was now greatly abased. His face and voice betrayed him on the verge of tears. “I want to go ’ome to Shonts, sir.” “Well, my boy, go ’ome—go home, I mean, to Shonts.” “’E’s gone, sir,” said Bealby.... Lord Chickney was a good-hearted man, and he knew that a certain public kindliness and disregard of appearances looks far better and is infinitely more popular than a punctilious dignity. He took Bealby to Waterloo in his hansom, got him a third class ticket to Chelsome, tipped a porter to see him safely into his train and dismissed him in the most fatherly manner. It was well after tea-time, Bealby felt, as he came once more within the boundaries of the Shonts estate. It was a wiser and a graver Bealby who returned from this week of miscellaneous adventure. He did not clearly understand all that had happened to him; in particular he was puzzled by the extreme annoyance and sudden departure of Captain Douglas from the presence of Lord Moggeridge; but his general impression was that he had been in great peril of dire punishment and that he had been rather hastily and ignominiously reprieved. The nice old gentleman with the long grey moustaches had dismissed him to the train at last It must, he felt, be a long time after tea-time, quite late.... He had weighed the advisability of returning quietly to his windowless bedroom under the stairs, putting on his little green apron and emerging with a dutiful sang-froid as if nothing had happened, on the one hand, or of going to the gardens on the other. But tea—with eatables—seemed more probable at the gardens.... He was deflected from the direct route across the park by a long deep trench, that someone had made and abandoned since the previous Sunday morning. He wondered what it was for. It was certainly very ugly. And as he came out by the trees and got the full effect of the faÇade, he detected a strangely bandaged quality about Shonts. It was as if Shonts had recently been in a fight and got a black eye. Then he saw the reason for this; one tower was swathed in scaffolding. He wondered what could have happened He was so fortunate as not to meet his father in the gardens, and he entered the house so meekly that his mother did not look up from the cashmere she was sewing. She was sitting at the table sewing some newly dyed black cashmere. He was astonished at her extreme pallor and the drooping resignation of her pose. “Mother!” he said, and she looked up convulsively and stared, stared with bright round astonished eyes. “I’m sorry, mother, I’aven’t been quite a good steward’s-room boy, mother. If I could ’ave another go, mother....” He halted for a moment, astonished that she said nothing, but only sat with that strange expression and opened and shut her mouth. “Reely—I’d try, mother....” |
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