in the least
connect the passion with the reformation, and yet she wondered if
interference with the one might somehow prejudice the other. It was a
harrowing dilemma.

In the end, with her accustomed courage, she decided to face the risk.
At any rate no harm need be done by her taking Considine into her
confidence. She encouraged herself with a pathetic trust in his
stability and wisdom in all matters that affected Arthur. Without even
the warning of a telegram she made her decision, ordered the carriage
for the station and set off for Lapton.

She arrived there late on a Saturday night to the astonishment of the
Considines, who had disposed of the boys for the evening, and were
sitting together in the library. Considine, who prided himself on
never being surprised by an emergency, welcomed her as if there were
nothing unusual in her visit, and Gabrielle, a little nervous, went off
to see the housekeeper, and arrange about a room for the visitor. At
the door Mrs. Payne stopped her. "If you don't mind," she said, "I
should be glad if you wouldn't let Arthur know that I'm here."

Considine was quick to agree: "Certainly not, if you wish it."

Gabrielle left them and he prepared to hear her story. She was very
agitated, and found it difficult to express herself. For a little
time, in spite of Considine's encouragements, she beat about the bush.
She felt that her revelation would amount to a criticism of Considine's
management.

At last, realising that she was getting no further, she produced her
documents and handed them to him.

Considine examined them slowly and judicially without a flicker of
emotion. It seemed to Mrs. Payne a very solemn moment, full of awful
possibilities. She waited breathlessly for his verdict.

"Well?" he said at last, putting the papers aside.

"Arthur wrote them."

"Yes.... I recognised his writing."

"He is in love with some woman."

"Presumably ... yes. But I'm not so sure of that."

"What do you mean?" She gasped at the prospect of relief.

He explained to her at length. It was a very common thing for boys of
Arthur's age, he said, to write verse.

"Verses of that kind?"

Yes... even verses of that kind. To be perfectly candid he himself,
when a boy in his teens, had done very much the same sort of thing. It
was true perhaps that the verses which he had written had not been
quite so ... perhaps frank was the best word. On the other hand his
own developmen