After sitting in the library, greedily devouring information, he strolled back to Lincoln Square, in time for dinner, and all that evening he kept his great news to himself.  It would have seemed natural for an only son to carry such important tidings to his mother; but Mrs. Shafto was the last woman to welcome his confidences.  She was entirely without the maternal instinct and, armed with a certain fierce reserve, held her son inflexibly at arm’s length.  A stranger would scarcely have discovered the relationship—­unless they happened to note that the pair walked to church together on Sunday, and that she pecked his cheek of a night before retiring.  As a matter of course, she made use of Douglas and, insisting on maternal claims, thrust on him disagreeable interviews, sent him messages, borrowed his money—­when short of change—­and allowed him to pay her taxis.  Honestly, she did not care for the boy.  He was too detached and self-contained; he had such odd ideas and resembled his father in many respects—­especially in appearance—­though Douglas’s expression was keener and more animated, he had the same well-cut features, fine head, and expressive dark grey eyes.

Yes, he recalled too forcibly a dead man whom she had neglected, detested and deceived.  And as for Douglas, for years he had been sensible of the smart of a baffled instinct, a hunger for a mother’s love and affection, which had never been his—­and never would be his.

In the drawing-room, after dinner, the boarders were amusing themselves as usual and making a good deal of noise, yet somehow the circle presented an air of rather spurious gaiety.  Mrs. Shafto, in a smart black-and-gold evening frock, was smoking a cigarette and playing auction-bridge with Mr. Levison and the two Japanese; the Misses Smith and various casual boarders were engrossed at coon-can.  Another group was assembled about the piano.  Douglas Shafto sat aloof in the window seat absorbed in the book on Burma and acquiring information; for even if he were never to see the country, it was as well to learn something about it.  Rangoon, the capital (that fact he already knew), once a mere collection of monasteries around the Great Pagoda, was now assumed to be the Liverpool of the East, the resting-place of Buddha’s relics, and an important industrial centre.  As his reading was disturbed by the boisterous chorus at the piano, and the shrieks of laughter from the coon-can set, he tucked the volume under his arm and slipped out of the room as noiselessly as possible.  He could rest at peace up in his “cock loft” and endeavour to puzzle out some means of reaching the land of the Golden Umbrella—­even if he worked his passage as a cabin steward.  In passing the door of Mrs. Malone’s den, some strange, unaccountable impulse constrained him to knock.  Yes; he suddenly made up his mind that he would confide in her—­and why not?  She was always so understanding, sympathetic and wise.