While he was eating his jam beneath the oak tree, he noticed things about his mother that he had never seemed to see before, her cheeks for instance were creamy, there were silver threads in her dark goldy hair, her throat had no knob in it like Bella’s, and she went in and out softly.  He noticed, too, some little lines running away from the corners of her eyes, and a nice darkness under them.  She was ever so beautiful, more beautiful than “Da” or Mademoiselle, or “Auntie” June or even “Auntie” Holly, to whom he had taken a fancy; even more beautiful than Bella, who had pink cheeks and came out too suddenly in places.  This new beautifulness of his mother had a kind of particular importance, and he ate less than he had expected to.

When tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the gardens.  He had a long conversation with his father about things in general, avoiding his private life—­Sir Lamorac, the Austrians, and the emptiness he had felt these last three days, now so suddenly filled up.  His father told him of a place called Glensofantrim, where he and his mother had been; and of the little people who came out of the ground there when it was very quiet.  Little Jon came to a halt, with his heels apart.

“Do you really believe they do, Daddy?” “No, Jon, but I thought you might.”

“Why?”

“You’re younger than I; and they’re fairies.”  Little Jon squared the dimple in his chin.

“I don’t believe in fairies.  I never see any.”  “Ha!” said his father.

“Does Mum?”

His father smiled his funny smile.

“No; she only sees Pan.”

“What’s Pan?”

“The Goaty God who skips about in wild and beautiful places.”

“Was he in Glensofantrim?”

“Mum said so.”

Little Jon took his heels up, and led on.

“Did you see him?”

“No; I only saw Venus Anadyomene.”

Little Jon reflected; Venus was in his book about the Greeks and Trojans.  Then Anna was her Christian and Dyomene her surname?

But it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant rising from the foam.

“Did she rise from the foam in Glensofantrim?”

“Yes; every day.”

“What is she like, Daddy?”

“Like Mum.”

“Oh!  Then she must be...” but he stopped at that, rushed at a wall, scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again.  The discovery that his mother was beautiful was one which he felt must absolutely be kept to himself.  His father’s cigar, however, took so long to smoke, that at last he was compelled to say: 

“I want to see what Mum’s brought home.  Do you mind, Daddy?”

He pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and was a little disconcerted when his father looked at him right through, heaved an important sigh, and answered: 

“All right, old man, you go and love her.”