question I went the whole dreary round of reasoning once more and arrived at the conviction that the straight action was incumbent upon me; which conviction I hastened to explain away with the same dull casuistry.  Sick and weary, I left the window-sill and ceased to think any more.  My conscience had given battle to evil and neither lost nor won.  Indecisive as the issue was, I knew in my heart of hearts that it partook of the nature of a defeat.

Later on, I wrote to my mother quite an effective analysis of this spiritual difficulty:  and I wrote it, so she loves to say, on a postcard, and signed it “yours truly, Rupert Ray.”  Her reply I could not expect till Wednesday morning, the morning of the lesson.  Of that I was glad.  For to this extent I had temporised:  I would wait till I heard from her before attempting to learn the work.  If necessary, I could cram it up on Wednesday morning.  And with this settlement I was satisfied in a sickly way.

Sec.2

While Tuesday is passing in silence and inaction, and the issue of this crisis is in the bag of the postman, let me tell you something of my relations with my mother.  Her love for me, I have said, was of the extravagant kind.  It was ever and actively present.  Though she discharged her social duties with a peculiar grace, yet I am certain that the thought she bestowed on them was an intruder amongst her thoughts of me.  My figure was present to her in the drawing-room, the ball-room, or the theatre.

I fear I was not demonstrative in my affection for her.  Perhaps, when we sat alone at dinner on holiday evenings, and her dress was one that left her arms bare, I would think that the softness of the limbs was such as to make one wish to touch them; and I would stroke them; or, when she laid her hand upon the table, I would rest my own hot palm upon it.  But I am certain that it was not till our stories marched into the shadow of the Great War that I became at all demonstrative.

Enough of that, then—­the postman’s feet are on the steps of Bramhall House.  May I just ask you to think of my mother as a very gracious lady, gracious in form and feature and character?

Sec.3

When breakfast was over on Wednesday morning, I repaired to the Steward’s Room, where letters had to be sought.  I was attacked by a feverish nervousness, which increased as I passed other boys returning with letters in their hands.  Anxiety seemed to be a physical thing deflating my breast and loins.  My heart, too, was affected when I asked the Steward with feigned unconcern if there were any letters for Ray.  It beat rapidly as I awaited the reply.

None.  I was stupefied:  but soon stupefaction became anger; anger hardened into sulkiness; and, as more sinister feelings grew, sulkiness lost itself in guilty belief.  Now I knew what course I would take—­I would go on cheating.