He started, though not much.  “I never knew you knew about that,” he said mildly.

“Of course I did.”  She quivered with exaggerated humiliation.  “To see my son spending himself on something so nearly nothing.  And then the way you moped and raged at her when she threw you over.  Seeing the poor woman was a fool, how else could you expect her to behave but like a fool?  It was undignified of you to put the burden of being the woman you loved on a poor thing like her—­like overworking a servant girl.”  She perceived that she was hot and shaking, and that she was within an ace of betraying the secret that there sometimes rose in her heart a thirst to beat and hurt every woman that he had ever loved.  Words would pour out that would expose her disgusting desire to strike and scratch if she did not substitute others.  So she found herself crying in a voice that was thinner than hers:  “And a married woman!  To see you doing wrong!”

The moment she said it she was ashamed and drew an expunging hand across her lips.  And as she had feared, he threw over his shoulder a glance that humorously recognised the truths which she had insincerely suppressed:  that while she desired to hurt the woman whom he had loved, she would gladly have murdered any woman who had refused to love him, whether married or single; and that she had never cared what he had done so long as he did not lose his physical and moral fastidiousness, and did not lust after flesh that, having rotted its nerves with delight unsanctioned by the spirit, knew corruption before death, and so long as he had not pretended to any woman that he wanted her soul when he wanted her body.

Seeing the tears in her eyes, he said kindly:  “Well, I never thought Mariquita’s marriage counted for much.  Do you remember how you took her in one night when old de Rojas hid in a cloisonne vase on the verandah for cover and potted at the stars with his gun?” But in his voice she read wonder that for the first time in his life he should have found his honest mother forging a moral attitude.

It was dreadful that, on this of all nights, and so soon after a special illumination of their relationship, she should have set him making allowances for her to cover up her insincerity.  She stammered miserably:  “Well, Ellen’s a dear, dear girl,” and twisted her fingers in her lap, and cried out in a fresh access of fever:  “It’s strange:  this is a cold night, and yet I feel hot and heavy and sticky as I did in Italy when the sirocco blew.”

He slid his hand into hers again and altered his position so that he could smile up into her face.  “Yes, she’s a dear girl,” he agreed comfortingly.

“Then marry her soon!” she begged.  “You’re thirty.  It’s time you had a life of your own.  You must make the ties that will last when I am dead.  Marry her soon.”

“Yes,” he said.  “I will marry her soon.”

“At once!” she urged.  “You can be married in three weeks, you know, if you set things going immediately.  You’ll see about it to-morrow, won’t you?”