“Very sound, Sabina,” admitted Mr. Churchouse; “and you should know what’s in his mind if anybody does.”

“I should no doubt, but I don’t.  I’ve never been in the boy’s secrets, or I might have been more to him.  But that’s not to say nobody could win them.  Any clever boy getting on for sixteen years should have plenty of ideas, and if you could find them, it might save a lot of trouble.”

She turned to Estelle as she spoke.

“He’s often told me things,” said Estelle, “and he’s often been going to tell me others and stopped—­not because he thought I’d laugh at him; but because he was doubtful of me.  But he knows I can keep secrets now.”

“He must be treated as an adult,” decided Ernest.  “Sabina is perfectly right.  We must give him credit for more sense than he has yet discovered, and appeal directly to his pride.  I think there are great possibilities about him if he can only be brought to face them.  His ruling passion must be discovered.  One has marked a love of mystery in him and a wonderful power of make-believe.  These are precious promises, rightly guided.  They point to imagination and originality.  He may have the makings of an artist.  Without exaggeration, I should say he had an artist’s temperament without being an artist; but art is an elastic term.  It must mean creative instinct, however, and he has shown that.  It has so far taken the shape of a will to create disaster; but why should we not lead his will into another channel and help it to create something worthy?”

“He’s fond of machinery,” said Sabina, “and very clever with his hands.”

“Could your child be anything but clever with his hands, Sabina?” said Estelle.

“Or mine be anything but fond of machinery?” asked Raymond.

He meant no harm, but this blunt and rather brutal claim to fatherhood made Sabina flinch.  It was natural that she never could school herself to accept the situation in open conversation without reserve, and all but Ironsyde himself appreciated the silence which fell upon her.  His speech, indeed, showed lack of sensibility, yet it could hardly be blamed, since only through acceptation of realities might any hopeful action be taken.  But the harm was done and the delicate poise of the situation between Abel’s parents upset.  Sabina said no more, and in the momentary silence that followed she rose and left them.

“What clumsy fools even nice men can be,” sighed Miss Ironsyde, and Churchouse spoke.

“Leave Sabina to me,” he said.  “I’ll comfort her when you’ve gone.  There is a certain ingrained stupidity from which no man escapes in the presence of women.  They may, or may not, conceal their feelings; but we all unconsciously bruise and wound them.  Sabina did not conceal hers.  She is quick in mind as well as body.  What matters is that she knows exceedingly well we are all on her side and all valuable friends for the lad.  Now let us return to the point.  I think with Estelle that Abel may have something of the artist in him.  He drew exceedingly well as a child.  You can see his pictures in Sabina’s room.  Such a gift if developed might waken a sense of power.”