Even as Dion realized this, his mother was poured back into the round face and plump figure beside the fire, and greeted him with the usual almost saccharine sweet smile, and: 

“Dee-ar, I wasn’t expecting you to-day.  How is the beloved one?”

“The beloved one” was Mrs. Leith’s rendering of Rosamund.

“How particularly spry you look,” she added.  “I’m certain it’s the Jenkins paragon.  You’ve been standing up to him.  Now, haven’t you?”

Dion acknowledged that he had, and added: 

“But you, mother?  How are you?”

“Quite wickedly well.  I ought to be down with influenza like all well-bred people,—­Esme Darlington has it badly,—­but I cannot compass even one sneeze.”

“Where’s Omar?”

Mrs. Leith looked grave.

“Poor little chap, we must turn down an empty glass for him.”

“What—­you don’t mean——?”

“Run over yesterday just outside the Mansions, and by a four-wheeler.  I’m sure he never expected that the angel of death would come for him in a growler, poor little fellow.”

“I say!  Little Omar dead!  What a beastly shame!  Mother, I am sorry.”

He sat down beside her; he was beset by a sensation of calamity.  Oddly enough the hammer of fate had never yet struck on him so definitely as now with the death of a dog.  But, without quite realizing it, he was considering poor black Omar as an important element in his mother’s life, now abruptly withdrawn.  Omar had been in truth a rather greedy, self-seeking animal, but he had also been a companion, an adherent, a friend.

“You must get another dog,” Dion added quickly.  “I’ll find you one.”

“Good of you, dee-ar boy!  But I’m too old to begin on a new dog.”

“What nonsense!”

“It isn’t.  I feel I’m losing my nameless fascination for dogs.  A poodle barked at me this afternoon in Victoria Street.  One can’t expect one’s day to last for ever, though, really, some Englishwomen seem to.  But, tell me, how is the beloved one?”

“Oh—­to be sure!  I wanted to talk to you about Rose.”

The smile became very sweet and welcoming on Mrs. Leith’s handsome round face.

“There’s nothing wrong, I’m sure.  Your Rosamund sheds confidence in her dear self like a light all round her.”

“Nothing wrong—­no.  I didn’t mean that.”

Dion paused.  Now he was with his mother he did not know how to explain himself; his reason for coming began to seem, even to himself, a little vague.

“It’s a little difficult,” he began at last, “but I’ve been wondering rather about women who are as Rosamund is just now.  D’you think all women become a good deal alike at such times?”

“In spirit, do you mean?”

“Well—­yes, of course.”

“I scarcely know.”

“I mean do they concentrate on the child a long while before it comes.”

“Many smart women certainly don’t.”