“It isn’t—­I wasn’t—­you oughtn’t to have come in.  You needn’t imagine——­”

He burst from the room.  A shameful, horrible experience.

But it cannot be denied that he was ashamed afterwards.  He loved his mother, whereas he merely liked the rest of the family.  He would not hurt her for worlds, and yet, why must she——­

And strangely, mysteriously, her attitude was confused in his mind with his dreams, and his Friend, and the red moon, and the comic chimneys.

He knew, however, that, during this last week he must be especially nice to his mother, and, with an elaborate courtesy and strained attention, he did his best.

The last night arrived, and, very smart and excited, they went to the theatre.  The boxes had been packed, and stood in a shining and self-conscious trio in John’s bedroom.  The new play-box was there, with its stolid freshness and the black bands at the corners; inside, there was a multitude of riches, and it was, of course, a symbol of absolute independence and maturity.  John was wearing the new Eton jacket, also a new white waistcoat; the parting in his hair was straighter than it had ever been before, his ears were pink.  The world seemed a confused mixture of soap and starch and lights.  Piccadilly Circus was a cauldron of bubbling colour.

His breath came in little gasps, but his face, with its snub nose and large mouth, was grave and composed; up and down his back little shivers were running.  When the car stopped outside the theatre he gave a little gulp.  His father, who was, for once, moved by the occasion, said an idiotic thing;

“Excited, my son?”

With his head high he walked ahead of them, trod on a lady’s dress, blushed, heard his father say:  “Look where you’re going, my boy,” heard May giggle, frowned indignantly, and was conscious of the horrid pressure of his collar-stud against his throat; arrived, hot, confused, and very proud, in the dark splendour of the box.

The first play of his life, and how magnificent a play it was!  It might have been a rotten affair with endless conversations—­luckily there were no discussions at all.  All the characters either loved or hated one another too deeply to waste time in talk.  They were Roundheads and Cavaliers, and a splendid hero, who had once been a bad fellow, but was now sorry, fought nine Roundheads at once, and was tortured “off” with red lights and his lady waiting for results before a sympathetic audience.

During the torture scene John’s heart stopped entirely, his brow was damp, his hand sought his mother’s, found it, and held it very hard.  She, as she felt his hot fingers pressing against hers, began to see the stage through a mist of tears.  She had behaved very well during the past weeks, but the soul that she adored was, to-morrow morning, to be hurled out, wildly, helter-skelter, to receive such tarnishing as it might please Fate to think good.