“Now let me go,” he said, putting her from him gently but coldly; “I want to speak to my mother.”

The two younger ladies wandered out into the garden, whilst Maurice sought his mother’s room.

“Mother, I have been to see John this morning.  I am afraid he is really very ill,” he said, gravely.

Lady Kynaston shrugged her shoulders.  “He is like a baby over that foolish affair,” she said, impatiently.  “He does not seem able to get over it; why does he shut himself up in his rooms?  If he were to go out a little more——­”

“He has been out; it is that that has made him ill.  He went out a few mornings ago—­the wind was very cold; he says it is that which gave him a chill.  But, from what he says, I fancy he saw, or he thinks he saw, Miss Nevill.”

Lady Kynaston sat at her davenport with all the litter of her daily correspondence before her; her son stood up by the mantelpiece, leaning his back against it, and looked away out of window at the figures of Beatrice and his future wife sauntering up and down the garden walks.  She could not well see his face as he spoke these last words.

“Tiresome woman!” cried Lady Kynaston, angrily; “there is no end to the trouble she causes.  John ought to be thankful he is well rid of her.  Did you hear what Beatrice Miller said at lunch about her?  I call it shocking bad taste, her coming up to town and flirting and flaunting about under poor John’s nose—­heartless coquette!  Creating ‘a sensation,’ indeed!  That is one of those horrible American expressions that are the fashion just now!”

“It is no wonder she is admired,” said Maurice, dreamily:  “she is very beautiful.”

“I wish to goodness she would keep out of John’s way.  Where did he see her?”

“It was in the Row, I think, and, from what he said, he only fancied he saw her back, walking away.  I told him, of course, it could not be her, because I thought she was down at Sutton; but, after what Beatrice told us at lunch, I make no doubt that it was her, and that John really did see her.”

“I should have thought that your brother would have had more spirit than to sit down and whine over a woman in that way,” said her ladyship, sharply; “it is really contemptible.”

“But if he is ill in body as well as in mind, poor fellow?”

“Pooh! fiddlesticks!  I am quite sure, if Helen jilted you, you would bear it a great deal better—­losing the money and all—­than he does.”

Maurice smiled.

“That is very possible; but a man can’t help his disposition, and John has been utterly shattered by it.”

“Well, I am sorry for him, of course; but I confess that I don’t see that anybody can do anything for him.”

And then Maurice was silent for a minute.  God only knew what passed through his soul at that minute—­what agonies of self-renunciation, what martyrdom of all that makes life pleasant and dear to a man!  It is certain his mother did not know it.