All at once her singularly youthful face grows as old as it ought to be—­a vindictive curve round the mouth makes that usually charming feature almost repulsive.

“My dear mother, let us avoid a scene,” says her son sternly.  “To tell you the truth, I have had too many of them of late.”

Something in his manner warns her to go no farther in the late direction.  If she is to win the cause so close to her heart, she had better refrain from recrimination—­from an accusation of any sort.

“Dearest Maurice,” says she, going to him and taking his hand in hers, “you know it is for your sake only I press this dreadful matter.  She is so rich, and you—­we—­are so poor!  She has a house in Surrey, and one in the North—­delightful places, I have been told—­and, of course, she would like you to keep up your own house in town.  As for me, all I ask is this old house—­bare and uncomfortable as it is.”

“Nonsense, mother,” letting her hand go and turning away impatiently.  “You speak as if it were all settled.”

“Why should it not be settled?”

“You talk without thinking!” He is frowning now, and his tone is growing angry.  “Am I the only one to be consulted?”

“Oh! as for her—­that child!  Of course you can influence her.”

“I don’t want to,” wearily.

“You can do more than that.  You are very good-looking, Maurice.  You can——­” She hesitates.

“Can what?” coldly.

“Fascinate her.”

“I shall certainly not even try to do that.  Good heavens! what do you mean?” says her son, colouring a dark red with very shame.  “Are you asking me to make love to this girl—­to pretend an admiration for her that I do not feel?  To—­to—­lie to her?”

“I am only asking you to be sensible,” says his mother sullenly.  She has gone back to her chair, and now, with lowered lids and compressed lips, is fanning herself angrily.

“I shan’t be sensible in that way,” says her son, very hotly.  “Put it out of your head.  To me Miss Bolton (it is really ridiculous to call her Miss anything; she ought to be Betty, or Lizzie, or Lily, or whatever her name is, to everyone at her age)—­to me she seems nothing but a baby—­and—­I hate babies!”

“Marian has taught you!” Says his mother, with a sneer. “She certainly is not a baby, whatever else she may be.  But I tell you this, Maurice, that you will hate far more being left a beggar in the world, without enough money to keep yourself alive.”

“I am sure I can keep myself alive.”

“Yes, but how? You, who have been petted and pampered all your life?”

“Oh, don’t speak to me as if I were in the cradle!” says Maurice, with a shrug.

“Do you never think?”

“Sometimes”.