Mrs. Eldon had grown older in appearance since that evening of her son’s return.  Of course she had discovered the cause of his illness, and the incessant torment of a great fear had been added to what she suffered from the estrangement between the boy and herself.  Her own bodily weakness had not permitted her to nurse him; she had passed days and nights in anguish of expectancy.  At one time it had been life or death.  If he died, what life would be hers through the brief delay to which she could look forward?

Once more she had him by her side, but the moral distance between them was nothing lessened.  Mrs. Eldon’s pride would not allow her to resume the conversation which had ended so hopelessly for her, and she interpreted Hubert’s silence in the saddest sense.  Now they were about to be parted again.  A house had been taken for her at Agworth, three miles away; in her state of health she could not quit the neighbourhood of the few old friends whom she still saw.  But Hubert would necessarily go into the world to seek some kind of career.  No hope shone for her in the prospect.

Whilst the servant waited on them at luncheon, mother and son exchanged few words.  Afterwards, Mrs. Eldon had her chair moved to the window, where she could see the garden greenery.

‘I called on Mr. Mutimer,’ Hubert said, standing near her.  Through the meal he had cast frequent glances at her pale, nobly-lined countenance, as if something had led him to occupy his thoughts with her.  He looked at her in the same way now.

‘Did you?  How did he impress you?’

’He is not quite the man I had expected; more civilised.  I should suppose he is the better kind of artisan.  He talks with a good deal of the working-class accent, of course, but not like a wholly uneducated man.’

’His letter, you remember, was anything but illiterate.  I feel I ought to ask him to come and see me before we leave.’

‘The correspondence surely suffices.’

‘You expressed my thanks?’

‘Conscientiously.’

‘I see you found the interview rather difficult, Hubert.’

’How could it be otherwise?  The man is well enough, of his kind, but the kind is detestable.’

‘Did he try to convert you to Socialism?’ asked his mother, smiling in her sad way.

’I imagine he discerned the hopelessness of such an under taking.  We had a little passage of arms,—­quite within the bounds of civility.  Shall I tell you how I felt in talking with him?  I seemed to be holding a dialogue with the twentieth century, and you may think what that means.’

‘Ah, it’s a long way off, Hubert.’

’I wish it were farther.  The man was openly exultant; he stood for Demos grasping the sceptre.  I am glad, mother, that you leave Wanley before the air is poisoned.’

‘Mr. Mutimer does not see that side of the question?’

’Not he I Do you imagine the twentieth century will leave one green spot on the earth’s surface?’