“If you will not regard it as a liberty,” said he, with his cadence of a prime minister, “I should like to express my relief and happiness at your restoration among us.”

“Thank you—­William,” whispered Mrs. De Peyster.

William, having delivered his felicitations, bowed slightly, and started to turn away.  But Matilda had stepped forward behind him, an imploring look upon her face.

“Please, ma’am,—­please, ma’am!” said she, in a tone that left no doubt as to her meaning.

“Wait, William,” weakly commanded Mrs. De Peyster.

William paused.

Mrs. De Peyster did not yet know what she was doing; her words spoke themselves.

“William, Matilda has—­has just confessed your engagement.  She has also confessed how, during my—­my absence—­one night, after driving with you, she—­she lost control of herself and seriously offended you.  She asks me to apologize to you and tell you how very, very sorry she is.”

“Indeed, I am, William!” put in Matilda fervently.

“It is my wish, William,” continued Mrs. De Peyster, “that you should forgive her—­and make up things between you—­and never speak of that incident again—­and be happy and stay with me forever.”

Matilda timidly slipped an arm through William’s.

“Forgive me, William!” said she appealingly.

William’s graven face exhibited a strange phenomenon—­it twitched slightly.

“Thank you, Mrs. De Peyster,” said he.  And bowing respectfully, with Matilda upon his arm, he went out.

“Well, Mary, I guess we’d better be going, too,” said Jack, taking his wife’s hand.  “Mother,”—­respectfully, yet a little defiantly,—­“I’m sorry that Mary and I have by our trespassing caused you so much inconvenience.  But Mary and I and our things will be out of the house within an hour.  Good-bye.”

“Wait, Jack!” Mrs. De Peyster reached up a trembling hand and caught his sleeve.  “Olivetta,” said she, “perhaps you and your—­your fiance could find—­another place for your confidences.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Olivetta, starting up with a flush.

“Cousin Caroline, do you mean—­”

Mrs. De Peyster lifted an interrupting hand.

“Do as you like, but tell me about it later.”

As the pair went out, Mrs. De Peyster slowly raised herself up and stood gazing for a moment at her son.  And that strange new force which had menaced her with eruption during all the days of her hiding, and which these last few minutes had been pulsing upward toward orgasm, was now become resistless.  It was as though a crust, a shell, were being burst and being violently shed.  She thrilled with an amazing, undreamed-of, expanding warmth.

“Do you really—­want to—­leave me, Jack?” she whispered.

“I have been invited to leave,” said he, “but I have never been invited to come back.”

With a timidity, shot through with tingling daring, she slipped an arm about his shoulders.