when he died.  All this was nothing to Jon, and little enough to his mother.  It was June who did everything needful for one who had left his affairs in perfect order.  When she had gone, and those two were alone again in the great house, alone with death drawing them together, and love driving them apart, Jon passed very painful days secretly disgusted and disappointed with himself.  His mother would look at him with such a patient sadness which yet had in it an instinctive pride, as if she were reserving her defence.  If she smiled he was angry that his answering smile should be so grudging and unnatural.  He did not judge or condemn her; that was all too remote—­indeed, the idea of doing so had never come to him.  No! he was grudging and unnatural because he couldn’t have what he wanted be cause of her.  There was one alleviation—­much to do in connection with his father’s career, which could not be safely entrusted to June, though she had offered to undertake it.  Both Jon and his mother had felt that if she took his portfolios, unexhibited drawings and unfinished matter, away with her, the work would encounter such icy blasts from Paul Post and other frequenters of her studio, that it would soon be frozen out even of her warm heart.  On its old-fashioned plane and of its kind the work was good, and they could not bear the thought of its subjection to ridicule.  A one-man exhibition of his work was the least testimony they could pay to one they had loved; and on preparation for this they spent many hours together.  Jon came to have a curiously increased respect for his father.  The quiet tenacity with which he had converted a mediocre talent into something really individual was disclosed by these researches.  There was a great mass of work with a rare continuity of growth in depth and reach of vision.  Nothing certainly went very deep, or reached very high—­but such as the work was, it was thorough, conscientious, and complete.  And, remembering his father’s utter absence of “side” or self-assertion, the chaffing humility with which he had always spoken of his own efforts, ever calling himself “an amateur,” Jon could not help feeling that he had never really known his father.  To take himself seriously, yet never bore others by letting them know that he did so, seemed to have been his ruling principle.  There was something in this which appealed to the boy, and made him heartily endorse his mother’s comment:  “He had true refinement; he couldn’t help thinking of others, whatever he did.  And when he took a resolution which went counter, he did it with the minimum of defiance—­not like the Age, is it?  Twice in his life he had to go against everything; and yet it never made him bitter.”  Jon saw tears running down her face, which she at once turned away from him.  She was so quiet about her loss that sometimes he had thought she didn’t feel it much.  Now, as he looked at her, he felt how far he fell short of the reserve power and dignity in both his father and his mother.  And, stealing up to her, he put his arm round her waist.  She kissed him swiftly, but with a sort of passion, and went out of the room.