And Anna-Rose, struck in her turn at such an omission, paused too with food on the way to her mouth, and said, “And we such friends?”

“Almost, as it were, still red-not from being with you?” said Anna-Felicitas.

Both the twins looked at Mrs. Twist in their surprise.

“I thought the first thing everybody did when they got back to their mother,” said Anna-Rose, addressing her, “was to tell her everything from the beginning.”

Mrs. Twist, after an instant’s astonishment at this unexpected support, bowed her head—­it could hardly be called a nod—­in her son’s direction.  “You see—­” the movement seemed to say, “even these ...”

“And ever since the first day at sea,” said Anna-Felicitas, also addressing Mrs. Twist, “up to as recently as eleven o’clock last night, he has been what I think can be quite accurately described as our faithful two-footed companion.”

“Yes,” said Anna-Rose.  “As much as that we’ve been friends.  Practically inseparable.”

“So that it really is very surprising,” said Anna-Felicitas to Mr. Twist, “that you didn’t tell your mother about us.”

Mr. Twist got up.  He wouldn’t wait for Edith.  It was unhealthy in that room.

He took his mother’s arm and helped her to get up.  “You’re very wise, you two,” he flung at the twins in the voice of the goaded, “but you may take it from me you don’t know everything yet.  Mother, come into the drawing-room, and we’ll talk.  Edith’ll see to these girls.  I expect I ought to have talked sooner,” he went on, as he led her to the door, “but confound it all, I’ve only been home about a couple of hours.”

“Five,” said Mrs. Twist.

“Five then.  What’s five?  No time at all.”

“Ample,” said Mrs Twist; adding icily, “and did I you say confound, Edward?”

“Well, damn then,” said Edward very loud, in a rush of rank rebellion.

CHAPTER XVII

This night was the turning-point in Mr. Twist’s life.  In it he broke loose from his mother.  He spent a terrible three hours with her in the drawing-room, and the rest of the night he strode up and down his bedroom.  The autumn morning, creeping round the house in long white wisps, found him staring out of his window very pale, his mouth pulled together as tight as it would go.

His mother had failed him.  She had not understood.  And not only simply not understood, but she had said things when at last she did speak, after he had explained and pleaded for at least an hour, of an incredible bitterness and injustice.  She had seemed to hate him.  If she hadn’t been his mother Mr. Twist would have been certain she hated him, but he still believed that mothers couldn’t hate their children.  It was stark against nature; and Mr. Twist still believed in the fundamental rightness of that which is called nature.  She had accused him of gross things—­she, his mother, who from her conversation since he could remember was unaware, he had judged, of the very existence of such things.  Those helpless children ...  Mr. Twist stamped as he strode.  Well, he had made her take that back; and indeed she had afterwards admitted that she said it in her passion of grief and disappointment, and that it was evident these girls were not like that.