“You surely aren’t thinking of beginning to paint at this time of night!” Constance exclaimed, astonished.

“Oh yes, mother!” he fretfully appealed.  “It’s not late.”

Another positive ordinance of his father’s had been that there should be nothing after supper except bed.  Nine o’clock was the latest permissible moment for going to bed.  It was now less than a quarter to.

“It only wants twelve minutes to nine,” Constance pointed out.

“Well, what if it does?”

“Now, Cyril,” she said, “I do hope you are going to be a good boy, and not cause your mother anxiety.”

But she said it too kindly.

He said sullenly:  “I do think you might let me finish it.  I’ve begun it.  It won’t take me long.”

She made the mistake of leaving the main point.  “How can you possibly choose your colours properly by gas-light?” she said.

“I’m going to do it in sepia,” he replied in triumph.

“It mustn’t occur again,” she said.

He thanked God for a good supper, and sprang to the harmonium, where his paint-box was.  Amy cleared away.  Constance did crochet-work.  There was silence.  The clock struck nine, and it also struck half-past nine.  She warned him repeatedly.  At ten minutes to ten she said persuasively: 

“Now, Cyril, when the clock strikes ten I shall really put the gas out.”

The clock struck ten.

“Half a mo, half a mo!” he cried.  “I’ve done!  I’ve done!”

Her hand was arrested.

Another four minutes elapsed, and then he jumped up.  “There you are!” he said proudly, showing her the block.  And all his gestures were full of grace and cajolery.

“Yes, it’s very good,” Constance said, rather indifferently.

“I don’t believe you care for it!” he accused her, but with a bright smile.

“I care for your health,” she said.  “Just look at that clock!”

He sat down in the other rocking-chair, deliberately.

“Now, Cyril!”

“Well, mother, I suppose you’ll let me take my boots off!” He said it with teasing good-humour.

When he kissed her good night, she wanted to cling to him, so affectionate was his kiss; but she could not throw off the habits of restraint which she had been originally taught and had all her life practised.  She keenly regretted the inability.

In her bedroom, alone, she listened to his movements as he undressed.  The door between the two rooms was unlatched.  She had to control a desire to open it ever so little and peep at him.  He would not have liked that.  He could have enriched her heart beyond all hope, and at no cost to himself; but he did not know his power.  As she could not cling to him with her hands, she clung to him with that heart of hers, while moving sedately up and down the room, alone.  And her eyes saw him through the solid wood of the door.  At last she got heavily