“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the lad with a good-natured grumble.

“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried.  “You are a dreadful old bear.”  And she ran across the room and hugged him.

James Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. 
“I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. 
I don’t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. 
I am sure I don’t want to.”

“My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it.  She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group.  It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.

“Why not, Mother?  I mean it.”

“You pain me, my son.  I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence.  I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies—­ nothing that I would call society—­so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London.”

“Society!” muttered the lad.  “I don’t want to know anything about that.  I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage.  I hate it.”

“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl, laughing, “how unkind of you!  But are you really going for a walk with me?  That will be nice!  I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends—­ to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it.  It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon.  Where shall we go?  Let us go to the park.”

“I am too shabby,” he answered, frowning.  “Only swell people go to the park.”

“Nonsense, Jim,” she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.

He hesitated for a moment.  “Very well,” he said at last, “but don’t be too long dressing.”  She danced out of the door.  One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs.  Her little feet pattered overhead.

He walked up and down the room two or three times.  Then he turned to the still figure in the chair.  “Mother, are my things ready?” he asked.

“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work.  For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers.  Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met.  She used to wonder if he suspected anything.  The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.  She began to complain.  Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders.  “I hope you will be contented, James, with your sea-faring life,” she said.  “You must remember that it is your own choice.  You might have entered a solicitor’s office.  Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families.”

“I hate offices, and I hate clerks,” he replied.  “But you are quite right.  I have chosen my own life.  All I say is, watch over Sibyl.  Don’t let her come to any harm.  Mother, you must watch over her.”