“Good morning, John.  Dear me, how hot and stuffy this room is,” holding up her soft old face to her son.

He just touched her cheek.  “I am sorry you find it so—­shall I open the window?”

“Oh!” sinking down in a chair, and throwing back her cloak; “how can you stand a fire in the room, it is quite mild and spring-like out.  Have you not been out, John? it would do you good to get a little fresh air.”

“I shall go round to the club presently, I daresay,” he answered, abstractedly, sitting down in his arm-chair again; all the pleasant flutter that the bright old lady brought with her, the atmosphere of life and variety that surrounded her, only vexed and wearied him, and jarred upon his nerves.  She was always telling him to go somewhere or to do something; why couldn’t she let him alone? he thought, irritably.

“To your club?  No further than that?  Why, you might as well stay at home.  Really, my dear, it’s a great pity you don’t go about and see some of your old friends; you can’t mean to shut yourself up like a dormouse for ever, I suppose!”

“I haven’t the least idea what I mean to do,” he answered, not graciously; she was his mother, and so he could not very well put her out at the door, but that was what he would have liked to do.

“I don’t see,” continued Lady Kynaston, with unwonted courage, “I don’t at all see why you should let this unfortunate affair weigh on you for ever; there is really no reason why you should not console yourself and marry some nice girl; there is Lady Mary Hendrie and plenty more only too ready to have you if you will only take that trouble——­”

“Mother, I wish you would not talk to me like that,” he said, interrupting suddenly the easy flow of her consoling suggestions, and there was a look of real pain upon his face that smote her somewhat.  “Never speak to me of marrying again.  I shall never marry any one.”  He looked away from her, stern and angry, stooping again over the red ashes in the grate; if he had only given her one plea for her pity—­if he had only added, “I have suffered too much, I love her still”—­all her mother’s heart must have gone out to him who, though he was not her favourite, was her first born after all; but he did not want her pity, he only wanted her to go away.

“It is a great pity,” she answered, stiffly, “because of Kynaston.”

“I shall never set foot at Kynaston again.”

Her colour rose a little—­after all, she was a cunning little old lady.  The little fox-terrier lay on the rug between them; she stooped down and patted it.  “Good dog, good little Vic,” she said, a little nervously; then, with a sudden courage, she looked up at her son again.  “John, it is a sad thing that Kynaston must be left empty to go to rack and ruin; though I have never cared to live there myself, I have always hoped that you would.  It would have grieved your poor father sadly to have thought that the old place was always to lie empty.”