“I confess I am not equal to the occasion.  I could not manage a baby.  The situation doesn’t suit me.”

“Maurice—­it must!" Lady Rylton rises, and, standing near him with her hand on the table, looks at him with a pale face.  “You find fault with her; so do I, and frankly admit she is the last woman in the world I should have chosen for you if I could help it, but she is one of the richest girls in England.  And after all, though I detest the very sound of it, Trade is now our master.  You object to the girl’s youth; that, however, is in her favour.  You can mould her to your own designs, and”—­she casts a bitter glance at him that will not be suppressed—­“all women cannot be widows.  Then, as for her being so little a creature, she is surely quite as tall as I am, and your father—­you know, Maurice, how devoted he was to me.”

“Oh yes, poor old Dad!” says Maurice, with a movement that might mean pain.  He seldom speaks of his father—­never to his mother.  He had certainly loved his father.  He moves quickly to the further end of the room.

“You will think of this girl, Maurice?”

“Oh, if that’s all,” laughing shortly, “you have arranged for that.  One can’t help thinking of the thing that is thrust under one’s eyes morning, noon, and night.  I shall think of her certainly until she goes away.”  He stops, and then says abruptly, “When is she going?”

“When her engagement to you is an accomplished fact.”

“My dear mother, how absurd it all is!  Poor little girl, and what a shame too!  She doesn’t even like me!  We shouldn’t be taking her name in vain like this.  By-the-bye, what queer eyes she has!—­have you noticed?”

“She has two hundred thousand pounds,” says Lady Rylton solemnly.  “That is of far greater consequence.  You know how it is with us, Maurice.  We can hold on very little longer.  If you persist in refusing this last chance, the old home will have to go.  We shall be beggars!” She sinks back in her chair, and sobs softly but bitterly.

“Don’t go on like that—­don’t!” says Rylton, coming over to her and patting her shoulder tenderly.  “There must be some other way out of it.  I know we are in a hole more or less, but——­”

“How lightly you speak of it!  Who is to pay your debts?  You know how your gambling on the turf has ruined us—­brought us to the very verge of disgrace and penury, and now, when you can help to set the old name straight again, you refuse—­refuse!” She stops as if choking.

“I don’t think my gambling debts are the actual cause of our worries,” says her son, rather coldly.  “If I have wasted a few hundred on a race here and there, it is all I have done.  When the property came into my hands it was dipped very deeply.”

“You would accuse your father——­” begins she hotly.

Rylton pauses.  “No; not my father,” says he distinctly, if gently.

“You mean, then, that you accuse me!" cries she, flashing round at him.