“What is it, mother?”

“How much has that child seen of you?”

“Not so very much, mother.  Why?”

“I think she thinks a great deal about you.”

“Nonsense, mother!” Anderson said.  It was after tea that night, and the mother and son sat together in the sitting-room.  They had a fire on the hearth, and it looked very pleasant.  Mrs. Anderson had a fine white apron over her best black silk, and she sat one side of the table, knitting.  Anderson was smoking and reading the evening paper on the other.  He continued to smoke and apparently to read after his mother made that statement with regard to Charlotte.  She looked at him and knew perfectly well that he was not comprehending anything he read.

“She is a very sweet girl,” she said, presently, in an inscrutable voice.  “I don’t like her family, and I must say I think her father, from what I hear, almost ought to be in prison, but I don’t think that child is to blame.”

“Of course not,” said Anderson.  He turned his paper with an air of pretended abstraction.

“She says she thinks her father will leave Banbridge before long,” said Mrs. Anderson, further.

Her son made no response.  She sat thinking how, if Carroll did leave Banbridge and the rest of the family were in Kentucky, why, the girl could be judged separately; and if Randolph should fancy her—­she was not at all sure that he did—­of Charlotte she had not a doubt.  She had never had a doubt of any woman’s attitude of readiness to grasp the sceptre, if it were only held out by her son.  And she herself was conscious of something which was almost infatuation for the girl.  Something about her appealed to her.  She had an almost fierce impulse of protection, of partisanship.

Anderson himself had not the least realization of his mother’s actual sentiments in the matter.  It was the consequence in inconsequence of a woman, which a man can seldom grasp.  From what he had known of his mother’s character heretofore, a girl coming from such a family would have been the last one to appeal to her for a daughter-in-law.  She had been plainly hostile to young women with much superior matrimonial assets.  He had often surmised that she did not wish him to marry at all.  He did not understand the possibility there is in some women’s natures of themselves falling in love, both individually and vicariously, with the woman who loves their sons, or who is supposed to love their sons.

“Captain Carroll came into the yard just as I drove out,” said Mrs. Anderson.  “He is a very fine-looking man.  It is a pity.”  Then she added again, with an obscure accent of congratulation, “Well, if he goes away nobody need say anything more against him.”

Anderson reflected, without expressing it aloud, that it was doubtful if Carroll’s exit was possible, and, if possible, would be conducive to silence from his creditors, but he apparently continued to read.