“He was here last night.  You must know that Bob writes to me every day, even from Cambridge, if it’s only a line; and in yesterday’s letter he mentioned quite casually that George had had enough of it and was off home.  It was a little too casual to be quite natural in old Bob, and there are other things he has been mentioning in the same way.  If any instinct is to be relied upon it is a mother’s, and mine amounted almost to second sight.  I sent Master George a telegram, and he came in last night.”

“Well?"’

“Not a word!  There was bad blood between them, but that was all I could get out of him.  Vulgar disagreeables between Bob, of all people, and his greatest friend!  If you could have seen the poor fellow sitting where you are sitting now, like a prisoner in the dock!  I put him in the witness-box instead, and examined him on scraps of Bob’s letters to me.  It was as unscrupulous as you please, but I felt unscrupulous; and the poor dear was too loyal to admit, yet too honest to deny, a single thing.”

“And?” said I, as Bob’s mother paused again.

“And,” cried she, with conscious melodrama in the fiery twinkle of her eye—­“and, I know all!  There is an odious creature at the hotel—­a widow, if you please!  A ‘ripping widow’ Bob called her in his first letter; then it was ‘Mrs. Lascelles’; but now it is only ‘some people’ whom he escorts here, there, and everywhere. Some people, indeed!”

Catherine smiled unmercifully.  I relied upon my nod.

“I needn’t tell you,” she went on, “that the creature is at least twenty years older than my baby, and not at all nice at that.  George didn’t tell me, mind, but he couldn’t deny a single thing.  It was about her that they fell out.  Poor George remonstrated, not too diplomatically, I daresay, but I can quite see that my Bob behaved as he was never known to behave on land or sea.  The poor child has been bewitched, neither more nor less.”

“He’ll get over it,” I murmured, with the somewhat shaky confidence born of my own experience.

Catherine looked at me in mild surprise.

“But it’s going on now, Duncan—­it’s going on still!”

“Well,” I added, with all the comfort that my voice would carry, and which an exaggerated concern seemed to demand:  “well, Catherine, it can’t go very far at his age!” Nor to this hour can I yet conceive a sounder saying, in all the circumstances of the case, and with one’s knowledge of the type of lad; but my fate was the common one of comforters, and I was made speedily and painfully aware that I had now indeed said the most unfortunate thing.

Catherine did not stamp her foot, but she did everything else required by tradition of the exasperated lady.  Not go far?  As if it had not gone too far already to be tolerated another instant longer than was necessary!

“He is making a fool of himself—­my boy—­my Bob—­before a whole hotelful of sharp eyes and sharper tongues!  Is that not far enough for it to have gone?  Duncan, it must be stopped, and stopped at once; but I am not the one to do it.  I would rather it went on,” cried Catherine tragically, as though the pit yawned before us all, “than that his mother should fly to his rescue before all the world!  But a friend might do it, Duncan—­if—­”